


Tinder

by Enchantable



Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [3]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 101,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: “Bad memories,” he says, “I’m fine.”“A-alright,” she says. He tries not to think of a time when he would have prayed for her to just take his word on things, “excuse me.”She sidesteps him and enters the room. He knows it does nothing. The bad things that have happened are just that. They are things that have happened. Memories are nothing more. But seeing her turn a slow circle in the room makes the nausea worse. In a way that he’s entirely unprepared for.“This one has the best light,” Pym says, “has anyone claimed it?”“No, that one can be yours,” Arthur says.Sometimes, one must go backwards to find the way forwards. Lancelot wishes there was another way. At the very least, he's not alone.
Series: Firebird (Accessible Version) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917388
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413787) by [Enchantable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable). 



The door opens with a groan.

Lancelot’s hand drops to his sword as he looks inside. It’s the only building still standing, the only one untouched. He slips inside and lets the door close behind him. He inhales the familiar scents. His eyes scan through the gloom and dust. The groan should have alerted anyone, but if they are not already hiding he would have heard something. He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer before he forces himself forward.

It’s his own mind that makes the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand up. His own complicated emotions that settle in the pit of his stomach. The stone walls and wooden pews are largely untouched, or they are underneath a fine coat of dust and ash. He rubs it between his fingertips. He can catch the few lingering specks of Fey mixed in with other things. He makes it midway up the nave before he allows himself to look upon the crossing. The crucifix stands there proud and untouched, as if even the ash wouldn’t dare lay on it. The itch on his back becomes an ache as he looks at it. It’s joined by an itch on his scalp. A reminder of the marks of devotion that no longer proclaim him a Man of God. His sword is stolen from the Paladins, but his thumb rests on the cross all the same. His breath catches and holds in his lungs.

Nothing happens.

Nothing ever happens.

A humorless smile comes to his lips as he shifts his hand higher, settling it to a more practical position where he can draw the sword. He doesn’t know why he thought that anything would be different. He moves further into the church, looking around the corners and anywhere that someone would be able to hide. It’s a simple village church. It’s not big nor elaborate nor anything splendid. In a time not terribly long ago, Lancelot would have said that didn’t matter. The Lord was a simple man. Now he thinks it doesn’t matter for a very different reason. It’s just a house, covered in a fine layer of dust and sacrificed people and Fey. He moves down the nave, ignoring the voice in his head that reminds him never to turn his back to God.

Those ways are a lie.

They always were.

“It’s empty,” he says, opening the door.

“And you weren’t struck down,” Guinevere says, moving past him into the church.

Lancelot smiles humorlessly at the observation. It’s not the first time he’s heard it. Nor is it the first time he’s wished for it to happen. Being struck down would mean he would feel something besides longing. Longing and absence. He steps aside to let her enter, leading in the odd assortment of Fey, Raiders and ordinary people. There’s not many of them, but a few have joined them along the way. It won’t be enough to do any damage to Cumber or Eydis but these people aren’t here to fight a war. They’re here for what comes after.

Squirrel is one of the last ones to enter and looks up at the cross with trepidation that Lancelot hasn’t seen on his face in a while. He grips the boys shoulder and steers him besides him. Squirrel looks at it but says nothing. Only the slight tension in his shoulders speaks of anything besides this being another place to sleep. Gawain looks at the cross for a long moment. Lancelot can understand Squirrel’s fear. He can understand his own bitterness. Both still have the emotions. Gawain looks at the symbol of the thing that killed him for a long, quiet moment and then moves to stand with them.

“I suppose it’s lucky we weren’t struck down. Again.”

“It’s just a building,” Lancelot says.

Gawain gives him one of those piercing looks that seem to be reserved for when the former man has something to say but has deemed Lancelot not ready to hear. Lancelot waits for him to elaborate but Gawain gives a dreamy sort of sigh and moves forward. Lancelot swallows back anything resembling disappointment at how freely the thing Gawain has become moves around the consecrated ground. It’s a building, if he hasn’t been struck down then there’s no reason for anyone else to be struck down.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a glimmer of red.

He turns as Pym walks inside the church. There’s a quietness that’s has settled into her. It’s something broken, but soft. Like a piece of glass worn by the sea. He would think it was a normal part of mourning, but even Squirrel and Gawain are growing concerned. Lancelot can see the contrast, he remembers loosing everything as a boy and how different it was to loosing everything as a man. The element of choice doesn’t make it hurt less. It just adds a layer of guilt. Pym walks up the nave, her eyes moving over the iconography that the others have no reason recognize. She stops in front of the crucifix. Lancelot leaves Squirrel and approaches her.

The soft look on her face is dull, almost dreamy.

It’s like standing next to a twisted version of Gawain. Like she has moved past all the humanity and life she fought to keep. Even if he sees sparks of it now and then. They retreat far too quickly. Nimue’s words echo in his ears. To remember that Gawain was beyond all of this. He always thought that would be a good thing, now he isn’t so sure. Not on Pym.

“I can see how it’s shaped like a cross,” she says.

He nods, though she can’t see his face the corner of his hood must catch her eye. She presses her lips together and turns. Not fully. Unlike him she doesn’t turn her back to the crucifix. He told her that wasn’t something one did. He’s just surprised that she remembers.

“It’s strange to be indoors,” he says.

She nods and turns back.

Lancelot thinks of the fire and sitting next to her. When she explained that he was going to have to learn how to hold a conversation or no one was going to want to speak to him. That life would be easier if he was able to do it. He doubts either of them counted on things turning like this. He doesn’t want to ask if she’s alright when the answer is obvious, and he doesn’t think there’s a solution to this. Not one he can offer. It’s only in the past few days that she’s stopped stepping away so blatantly, but she still jumps at every direct touch. As though contact will force her out of whatever place she’s taken refuge in. She glances at the pews and move towards one.

“Stop,” he says. She turns and looks at him as he fights the irrational urge to move her hand, “it’s not just dust.”

“Oh,” she says and almost looks surprised before giving an equally almost embarrassed smile, “of course it’s not.”

The desire to apologize is not irrational, he reasons. The last time he was in this place he was a Holy Man charged by God. Or rather, he was a Holy Man charged by his master who claimed to know God’s will. The idea that he would return to this place with a group of enemies, that he would count himself among them—that Gawain would be proven right, it never occurred to him. Pym cups her hands and bends over the pew. It’s been a while since she’s used her magic. But the vines grow up her skin as she blows and sends the dust moving. It scatters to a precise place and hangs there, cloud like, before it drops into a neat pile.

Other scents spark brighter and he turns to see the odd assortment of Fey all seem to have a similar method, unique to their Folk. It occurs to him that he’s never seen them in anything but tents. They haven’t stopped in one place long enough to clear out dust. As they finish, Arthur comes in leading Tristain. There’s no recognition of this place on her. He doubts there would be. If the Paladins did the dirty work, there was never a need for the Guard to get involved.

“Wait,” he says. Arthur stops, “loosen your grip on her hands, but keep them from her face.”

Arthur does what he asks with only a curious look. Tristain spares him some venom in her glare before she genuflects in front of the crucifix, blessing herself as much as she can. Lancelot isn’t foolish enough to think she won’t use the iron for mortification. He lets her have a moment before nodding to Arthur who puts a hand on her. She rises unaided as he takes the chains again.

“That was kind of you,” Merlin rasps.

Lancelot nods towards her and Arthur, ignoring Merlin’s lingering look. If the Druid’s presence hasn’t offended God, he’s not sure what will. Or perhaps God is like Gawain and beyond things like this. None of it makes him feel better. But that’s not something to linger on. He goes over to Arthur.

“I’m going to clear the living quarters,” he says.

“They’re empty,” Merlin replies.

“Of anything living,” Arthur says and nods to him.

Lancelot returns the gesture. He looks for Squirrel and motions him over to Pym. Squirrel nods, instead of his usual protests and makes his way to where she’s sitting. Lancelot looks at the sunlight that seems to pool at her feet as the rest of her sits in the gloom and swallows back anything useless on the matter. He half remembers the way that connects. The door protests louder which is good for their safety, no matter what Merlin as said. It’s a handful of narrow rooms, nothing elaborate but it should give them the privacy no-one has had in a long time. There’s nothing living. Or dead, the dust in here is just dust. Things like what happened in the church would never take place back here.

He lingers in the doorway of one of the rooms.

He remembers unrolling his bedroll. He remembers kneeling in the narrow shaft of light and whispering his prayers. He remembers the weight of his flog and the feel of it against his back as it broke the skin. He remembers longing, with each breath. Longing and being filled with such disgust at the feeling. His life was forfeit, he was a Blade and nothing more. It seems foolish now. Perhaps the feeling of disgust is the thing he’s managed to keep with him throughout all of this. It would be fitting.

“It was kind, what you did for her,” Gawain says.

Lancelot returns his gaze to the spot of light where he knelt. Gawain moves past him and into the room. His head doesn’t move but Lancelot gets the impression that he takes in everything that happened here. Even Lancelot can’t say he knows all those who have been in this room seeking Grace. He watches as something moves from Gawain’s hand and grows, curling like a vine. It brushes against the floor and Gawain shudders, the dreamy look easing from his face for a dark moment.

“You suffered here,” he says. Lancelot’s mouth goes dry, “do you not remember?”

“I do,” he says.

“Not then,” he says, “the first time.”

Lancelot opens his mouth to deny that he’s been here more than once. But if he focuses and picks out the lingering scent of another Ash Folk, the memory echoes in the back of his head.

Everything warped and so much larger. His feet still clumsy from the sea as he looked around the strange place. He remembers being sick and being struck for it. He remembers Brother Salt’s eyes were freshly sewn. Still red and puffy. He remembers being thrown and biting through his lip, landing in front of the window.

Right where Gawain’s vine rests.

Lancelot opens his eyes to the world he remembers. Though his heart is racing with a sickening need to run. The boyhood memories are faint. What isn’t faint is the way Brother Salt smiled when they last stayed and insisted the switch rooms since he had no use for a window. He remembers Father clearing his throat and turning into his own room.

He remembers someone chuckling.

Gawain smiles sadly and he realizes his jaw is slack and his head is throbbing. He has the sudden urge to be sick. He tastes copper in the back of his throat and for a moment he feels as though he’s that boy again. He shoves the memory away as firmly as he can. He focuses instead on Gawain’s vine retreating and the sickly summer smell that comes off of him. Though even that is tainted with the image of violence.

“I’m sorry,” Gawain says, as he always does in moments like this.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lancelot says and his voice comes much raspier than has been in some time.

“It does.”

Lancelot turns away as the door screeches open. Guinevere comes in first, looking around. Followed by Arthur. There aren’t enough rooms for everyone and Lancelot is intensely grateful. He’d rather sleep with Goliath.

“Right. So, you should take one. We can have the orphans who wish in another. Pym—Pym!” Lancelot’s eyes move to the doorway as she appears, “you should take a room in case anyone needs privacy.”

Pym nods and looks around, peering into one room after another. She stops at the one he’s in front of and looks at him. Something must show on his face. He sees the detached look on hers waver. He can feel a bead of sweat make it’s way down his temple.

“Bad memories,” he says, “I’m fine.”

“A-alright,” she says. He tries not to think of a time when he would have prayed for her to just take his word on things, “excuse me.”

She sidesteps him and enters the room. He knows it does nothing. The bad things that have happened are just that. They are things that have happened. Memories are nothing more. But seeing her turn a slow circle in the room makes the nausea worse. In a way that he’s entirely unprepared for.

“This one has the best light,” Pym says, “has anyone claimed it?”

“No, that one can be yours,” Arthur says.

“Where are you sleeping?” Guinevere asks.

“Out there?” He says.

“No. Pick a room.”

“But—“

“Choose. You need your strength.”

“I’ll stay with the others,” Lancelot says, “they won’t be unguarded,” Guinevere nods, satisfied and Arthur looks down awkwardly, “we can take shifts,” Lancelot tries instead.

“A wise solution,” Gawain says, “we all need the rest.”

Guinevere looks less than thrilled but even she can see the practicality in it.

“Let’s find a place for the horses,” she says, “and get this place ready for night.”


	2. Chapter 2

The cot is narrow and hard.

Pym wishes that she hadn’t thought it was practical to get everything set up as best she could in one night. She hadn’t meant to lay down or close her eyes. She meant it only for a moment before she left to go sleep with the rest of them. Now though, she opens her eyes and wonders how she managed to fall asleep at all. She’s accustom to sleeping on the ground, which is considerably softer than whatever the bed is made of. She rubs the back of her neck and sits up. It’s the first time since the village burned down that she’s properly slept indoors. 

As hard and narrow as the cot is, she’s grateful for the door.

It’s a terrible thing to be grateful for. But she is. She’s been grateful for every scrap of quiet and privacy. Which is a strange feeling, because she’s usually not. She likes people. Generally speaking. She likes meeting them and talking to them and hearing their stories. Now when someone opens their mouth she just wishes for silence. She knows why too. It’s no mystery. She’s always been the type to feel people’s stories in her bones. And right now she just can’t do that. If she feels one thing, she’s going to feel everything. She’s like a corked beer or that stupid lake. The moment it pops or breaks, it’s just going to be foam and churning waters.

She’s going to drown.

She knows she’s going to drown. Not like Nimue, she’s going to drown properly. It feels like half the time when she dips a toe into the emotions, her lungs burn and her throat closes. She’s never been the bravest but she’s never been a coward either. But it scares her. More than she wishes. It’s better to linger in whatever refuge she’s found, where things aren’t good but they are alive. Like she chose. She chose this. She will do what she must to bear it.

For the first time, Pym unlaces her boots for the simple act of taking them off. The stone feels almost alien against her feet after so long. Being properly indoors without the sea and a gaping hole in the ceiling feels strange. She removes another outer layer, leaving her in just her dress. It’s another thing that hasn’t been for some time. It’s slightly—no it’s very dizzying. The downside is that everything is not within arms reach.

Or it’s empty.

Pym frowns at the empty waterskin. It takes her a moment to remember that being alone comes at a price. It hasn’t been her filling it up this time. The most she’s managed to feel is guilt. Usually vaguely. Squirrel has lost just as much, he’s a boy, but the idea of him seeing her grief feels like a violation. He’s a boy and he needs to be protected, in some way. She just doesn’t know how to do that without surrendering to the storm inside her. It’s better to save him from seeing that. Or seeing her so afraid. The guilt is also there with Lancelot. Which it shouldn’t be, this should make them even. But that feels hollow. It’s not the ways she swore to uphold. It’s an ugly thing to even think about. There’s no evening this and even if there was, she doesn’t want that. She cannot bare to feel safe. That will bring her too close to feeling things and she doesn’t want that.

But she wishes she would have asked why he looked so sick at the sight of the room.

Pym decides she’ll ask in the morning. He’s probably gone to sleep near Squirrel. Or he’s on watch. He’s learned to take shifts with Arthur, Gawain and Kaze. She sees them switching sometimes, when her eyes are tired and she can’t look at the High Summoner’s handwriting a moment longer. They’re in enemy territory now, though that could be said of anywhere at the moment. Pym knows it take time for that to change, but she’s so weary of being the enemy. She picks up the waterskin and goes to the door.

A fresh one is waiting for her.

Pym stops and looks at it, surprised. She didn’t tell anyone she was out of water. But water has been quietly appearing when she needs it ever since—ever since she shoved a bucket at Lancelot and told him to go fill it. She looks up to see Lancelot silently making his way out of the room he’s supposed to be sleeping in to return to Squirrel and the little ones. He looks up and seems surprised to see her standing there. Which is troubling in itself, Lancelot always seems to know where people are unless he’s distracted. And it takes a lot to distract him. He hesitates for a moment before coming over, stopping well away of her. Pym steps aside to let him into the room and after a moment he moves inside, though he doesn’t come in far. He closes the door behind him.

“I didn’t want to wake them,” she says, “but I wanted to thank you for bringing this. And all the other times—“ she trails off, “are you alright?” He looks at her and there’s something blank in his gaze. Like he’s looking through her, “let’s go to the other room,” she suggests.

He pushes open the door and she follows him out. He glances at the one that leads to the main room and then leads her to the one he’s supposed to share with Arthur. She steps inside and turns around, watching as he closes the door. His back is to her. For a moment she wonders if she’s lost the right to ask about things. That would assume she had the right at all in the first place. But their footing is more equal and she finds herself less sure. It’s a hopeless feeling. She had thought she escaped the confusion, only to find herself in an even more complicated situation. She opens her mouth and closes it when she realizes she’s not sure she has the words to describe it. If those words even exist. She can just do what a healer should and listen.

“I was here as a boy,” he says simply, “we stopped here after the crossing.”

“You said—“

“I didn’t remember,” he replies, turning to face her. The blank look is gone. In its place is more emotion than Pym remembers being able to feel, “once I smelled Tristain in this place it came back.”

Pym knows that smell is powerfully connected to memory. The smell of another Ash Folk seems to dig into things that Lancelot has pushed away. He is still profoundly sensitive to Fey smells, but she’s noticed others seem to affect him as well. The spices the Raiders have, if they’ve been traveling nonstop, the oil they use—she imagines he pushed everything towards something he thought he would never smell again. No-one could have predicted there would be more Ash Folk. He gives her a frustrated look.

“They put me in that room both times.”

She can hear the hoarseness in his voice and that it’s something bad. But she’s unsure of why. All of it seems terrible to her. Nothing he describes about the church seems alright. She looks at him as he searches her face, his frustration deepening. Not with her, she has to remind herself, though she wouldn’t fault him if it was. Her mouth is still dry and when she speaks her voice is much more like his than she is expecting.

“Why is that troubling?” She asks. He looks away, “Lancelot—“ he tenses at his own name. Pym feels the waters churn under the surface. Her heart throbs in warning but she lifts her foot, just a small bit. Not enough to break the ice, she’s careful with her movements. But enough to take a half step closer, “why?”

“Brother Salt made us switch rooms,” he says quietly, “they laughed when they did.”

Being upset about something like that, in the face of all that he and his Brothers did, is almost comical. Laughing over putting someone in a room. But she remembers the blank look, like the one he wore on the ship. It’s fear. She doubts he showed anything of the sort when they put him in there when he was a loyal servant. But they would have remembered the boy who did show fear. She’s used to the Paladins doing horrible things to her kind, but they are sweeping, big horrors. They want death. Putting someone in a room like that, knowing how they were the last time they were there, laughing about it—that’s a cruelty that has nothing to do with a divine mission. 

Even in his frustration she realizes that his eyes keep moving to her. She didn’t realize his hesitation to tell her things had eased until it came back. There seems to be a void opening under her feet and she thinks she can hear the ice begin to crack. Suddenly she feels as though she’s in two places at once.

In the church and on the beach.

The ice is cracking even though there’s no ice. It’s melting with his green fire. She can just see the blue of Nimue’s gown out of the corner of her eye. The ice is going to crack and this time it will be both of them who are swallowed by the waters. Though her death won’t be nearly as useful. There’s no sword she can offer, no druid blood or great power. She will just die and either the church will be right or she will be across the waters in Avalon.

“Pym.”

The sound of her name drags her back, even if the smell of fire and musk is the same. There’s more incense. It’s not just on his clothes it’s everywhere. She blinks and realizes she’s not on the beach. She’s in the church. There’s no green fire. The ice is still there. But the smell is the same.

Scent is tied to memory.

“Sorry, I—“ she steps back and presses her hand to her forehead. It’s cool from the waterskin, “I don’t know came over me,” she shakes her head in an effort to clear it and sees Lancelot pull his hand back, “I’m so sorry.”

He nods.

“What did it feel like?”he asks. She presses her lips together and he looks at her silently. The frustration about his own situation is still there, but there’s concern too, “Pym—“

“Don’t,” she cuts in quickly, “I can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Alright.”

She looks at him in surprise. She hasn’t said anything so directly about what’s happening to her. But he looks at her steadily. Not the prying looks that the others give or the sad ones or the pitying ones. He doesn’t move for the door and for the first time, the urge to run is not overwhelming. It’s not pleasant to stand there, but it is bearable. Like the night she came back to the tent. It’s heartbreaking that it doesn’t feel as it should, but nothing feels as it should. She works her hand around the top of the waterskin and takes a drink. It’s cold and jarring, but that helps. It banishes the last vestiges of the beach from behind her eyes.

“Cruel,” she says. He looks at her curiously, “what they did, putting you in that room to laugh, that was cruel,” she says, “nothing you told me sounds like that is something God would want, so it’s just cruelty. That’s what I was trying to say.”

She takes another drink of water and tries to think if she’s said so many words together recently. It’s been weeks, at the very least. Though she’s sure the last time she said so much was with him. She offers him the waterskin but he shakes his head. She re-caps it and looks at him, waiting for the same awkwardness to fester. But it doesn’t appear, not like it has. Maybe she’s more stubborn than she thought.

“Were you going to sleep in here?” She asks. He shakes his head, “out there?”

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping,” he says.

There was a time when she would have said otherwise but the desire to stay awake is one she understands very well now. Even as the book tells her that sleep is important. She doesn’t think she’s capable of that healing kind of sleep. Not at the moment anyway.

“I have herbs I need to bundle to dry,” she says, “instead of sleeping. Do you want to help?”

He considers for a moment and then nods.

“I’ll be right back.”

She goes and collects the twine and the plants. She sits on the floor and Lancelot joins her after a moment. She’s been collecting things based on the pictures and drawings, since there’s no herb stash anymore. She hopes she’s gotten at least some of it right. She doesn’t ask Lancelot if he’s able to handle things like this when he’s upset. But she holds her breath as he picks up the first few herbs. Nothing happens.

“Your control is better,” she says.

“Practice,” he says.

She nods and sets about cutting the twine as he sorts the bundles and they lapse into silence.


	3. Chapter 3

“You didn’t come back last night,” Squirrel says as Lancelot observes him pushing his body up and down, “you said you were.”

“I’m sorry,” he says as Squirrel finishes his set and gets to his feet, “Pym needed help.”

Squirrel frowns.

“I could have helped,” he says.

Lancelot nods and motions him over, handing him the waterskin. Squirrel takes a drink but doesn’t immediately run off to do another set. Pym retreating has been hard on him, though he seems old enough to understand what she’s doing. Lancelot understands as well. Things like this are something he has less of a grasp on than even Squirrel. In the world he’s spent most of his life, death is a cause for celebration. This life is meant to be in service for the next. Death means you have been called to Heaven. It is supposed to be glorious, not a cause for sadness.

“She doesn’t want to burden you,” he says.

“Because I’m not big enough,” Squirrel parrots back, “I’m stronger though.”

“You are,” Lancelot agrees, “now go do another set.”

Squirrel nods and steps back a few paces. He drops and does another set of exercises. It seems unfair that the two of them will have this awkwardness. That they cannot help each other. At the same time, he understands that Squirrel is still young. And Pym needs the company of a peer. Or the closest thing that she has to it here. Lancelot knows that Gawain is the best suited, he’s known her the longest, but he remembers Nimue’s warning. Kaze has her hands full with advising Guinevere and helping the other little ones. Which leaves him. And though he feels completely unprepared for it, he imagines that Pym felt something very similar when he was dropped on her.

“Done!” Squirrel announces, flexing his wrists, “can we go see Pym now?”

“Let me speak to her,” he says. Squirrel looks down, “we’ll speak to her,” Lancelot corrects, “if she looks like she doesn’t want to talk, we’ll go.”

Squirrel seems to find that idea much better. Lancelot has spent his life caught between warring goals, but they worked somewhat in harmony. Being caught between his vows as Squirrel’s Squire and friendship is a more difficult place than he anticipated. There are no vows with friendship, no rules that he has been taught. He understands loyalty but all of these things seem to be in conflict.

His steps pause as he looks up at the church’s facade.

“What’s wrong?” Squirrel asks.

“It’s strange being here,” Lancelot says.

“I bet you never thought you’d be here with a bunch of Fey.”

Lancelot nods as they move into the back. When he knocks on the door, it’s not Pym who greets him but Arthur. He looks half asleep, he probably was. But he manages to smile as he looks between them.

“We switched rooms,” he says, “Pym said something about things being better in there.”

“Maybe I should do watch,” Squirrel says.

“Soon,” Arthur assures him.

Lancelot steers Squirrel away from the door so Arthur can rest and knocks on the other. Pym opens it. Everything has been moved and the herbs they strung together last night are tied up to dry faster. The memories are less sharp as he smells the herbs instead of the incense. But the memories are not as bad in this room.

“Arthur said you moved rooms,” Squirrel says.

“Yes,” she says and glances at him.

“I was in the other room when I stayed here last,” Lancelot explains briefly.

“Oh,” Squirrel says.

“And the time before that,” he adds.

Squirrel looks back at him sharply. Far too understanding for a boy of his age. Details are not important, Squirrel knows enough to understand that it is something unpleasant. If he’s curious about more, this is not the time. Their situation is complicated enough without him putting more thoughts into the boy’s head of his past. He knows that terrible things happened, those things don’t excuse what Lancelot has done.

“I wouldn’t want to be in that room either,” he says.

“So I just moved everything over,” Pym says, “it should do for now.”

“Are you feeling better this morning? Lancelot said he spent the night in here.”

Pym looks almost comically surprised and Lancelot cringes at the way Squirrel chooses to phrase things. It’s a reminder that he is, well, a child. No matter how old he acts or how much life has forced him to grow up in some ways, in many more he is still a child. Lancelot knows that is a sign that something has been done right. That not everything has been taken from at least one Fey.

“I do feel better,” Pym says, recovering as much as she can.

“You should come sleep out there with the rest of us,” Squirrel says, “I saved you a place.”

“Thank you,” Pym says, the last vestiges of surprise leaving her face, “does it smell right?” She asks Squirrel.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Lancelot watches as his features relax. They can’t do what he can, but he imagines that the smell of the place Pym is trying to replicate would be a good way to judge if she’s doing this right.

“It smells fresher,” Squirrel says, “but very close.”

“Good,” she says, relaxing slightly, “it’ll get there, they just need to dry out.”

“Why don’t we use Lancelot’s Fire?” They both look at him, “Nimue used to come back smelling like smoke when they’d get new herbs. Remember?”

Lancelot braces for the sadness on Pym’s face but none comes. Instead she looks exasperated with herself for the first time in a while. It’s familiar. It’s—relieving. Even if it’s just there for a moment.

“Of course,” she says, “we can just use a regular fire. There’s no need for that.“

“We don’t want the smoke,” Squirrel cuts in. He straightens up and looks behind him, “Besides, it’ll be good practice.”

Lancelot looks at him and Squirrel returns the gaze. As the boy has gotten stronger, Lancelot’s honed his fire more. But it seems like a foolish thing to risk. He almost says as much but both of them look at him with trust. Squirrel believes he can do this and not burn down the church. In his guts he knows they aren’t wrong, but it’s not an idea he relishes. He looks at Pym who nods. This isn’t an idea he relishes, but if it is a risk she’s willing to take he can participate.

“We need stones,” he says. Pym gives him a curious look, “the Fire spreads without some kind of barrier.”

“What about these?” She says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a handful of pebbles.

“Those will do.”

She hands him the bag and he sets out a narrow oval underneath the bundles. The two trust him but he’s grateful when they both step back without him saying anything. He presses his fingertips to the stone at the far end of the oval and focuses. The Fire comes easier now, it’s more like a muscle he knows how to use. It still always starts at his palm but now he can wrap it around his fingers and direct it where he wishes. To a much higher degree anyway. He controls it as he lets it spread along the oval, pulling his hand back just before it reaches the corners. He still does not have a way to end the fire without his Faith.

But his Faith his shaken.

He half expects the prayer not to work but it does. It takes an extra moment, but the Fire vanishes from his fingertips. It’s a relief. The Fire on his fingertips goes out but the Fire contained in the stones continues to burn. It’s not a lot, it’s faint as well, he’s tried to mimic natural fire as much as he can. They both can look without it hurting their eyes. At least for a while. The little amount also keeps the room warmer but not oppressively hot. It will work for what needs to be done.

“Are you still connected to it?” Pym asks.

“No,” he says, “not until I touch it again.”

Pym walks over to the circle, looking at the faint green light thrown off by the flames. She kneels down and reaches a hand over the flames. When Squirrel comes closer, she doesn’t push him back. He realizes it’s the first time either of them have seen the Fire in a quiet moment like this. Even that day on the shore he wasn’t able to make it so others could look. It’s soft and contained. He thinks that’s why it doesn’t send Pym into a panic like so many other things. Even so she stands up quickly and steps back.

“Thank you,” she says, “this should be a great help,” he nods, “are stones the only thing that can be used as a barrier?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, “Merlin said he knew a king who kept the Fire in a stone pit.”

“Did he know what kind of stones?’

“What are you thinking?” Squirrel asks.

“It seems foolish to carry around stones if there’s a more portable way to contain it,” she says, “I know the Raiders grind up things for the paste they use on their eyes.”

It’s not a terrible idea to come up with a better way to contain it. He isn’t sure if his half memories of seeing adult Ash Folk make the fire without containment are true or if he’s imagining things. Which is the most frustrating of all. His clearest memories that keep getting dragged up are always tied to the scent of Ash Folk and Church. They start after he was taken. The only memory he has before that seems to be on the beach and that one is completely useless for this. There isn’t a lick of Fire to be seen. Just those black stones and fog and smoke.

“Why are you carrying around stones?” Squirrel asks.

“If you heat them up and put them on sore places, they can help relax the muscles,” Pym says, “like a hot bath.”

Squirrel sighs and nods.

“I miss those.”

Lancelot glances at him. The shock of what has happened is slowly lessening and the weight is settling on those who have remained. People talk more freely about the things that they miss, the ones they have lost, how they wish to rebuild. Those things usually make it back to Guinevere one way or another. Lancelot has never been in a society where the will of anyone matters. He doesn’t know if it matters now, or if it will matter when all of this is done. But people keep talking and Guinevere has yet to demand they stop. Which is something she seems to have little issue doing with a host of other things.

“It’s strange what you miss,” Pym says. Squirrel looks at her, “I seem to remember you feeling very differently about bathing.”

“That’s just because I didn’t know I wouldn’t do it for months,” Squirrel objects.

“We’ll see when you start bathing regularly,” Pym says.

“We’ll see how you feel about hot baths when you get one,” Squirrel says.

Pym rolls her eyes and ruffles his longer hair which makes him squawk indignantly. Lancelot almost thinks nothing of it but the way Squirrel speaks about it catches his ear. Pym hasn’t been speaking of the things she misses, which he has always chalked up to the trauma of what happened with Nimue. But even before that, she made the decision to stay and not go to Avalon. She moved from the direction those who longed for the village went.

In all the things that have happened, somehow the idea of a hot bath seems to be the thing that Pym finds unbelievable.

“Did the church believe in hot baths?” Squirrel asks.

“No,” Lancelot says.

Squirrel nods like this makes perfect sense and Lancelot imagines it does. Only the highest among them had such luxuries. It’s an odd thing to find a common ground over. But hot baths being reserved for the most privileged is something that seems to transcend the differences between them.

“Seems you’ve got better control,” Guinevere observes from the doorway, “you can come on my ship.”

“I thought we were taking over land,” Squirrel says, confused.

“We are,” Guinevere says, not turning around as she goes for the main room.

Pym gives him the barest smile, but he can see the relief. It’s one less thing to be worried about and there’s more than enough to deal with right now. Another shadow falls in the door and they both look as Merlin observes the mess there. He looks as he has always looked since Nimue sank below the water and he tried to follow her. Though now the sword is in Arthur’s possession. Merlin takes in the sight of everything and something hungry appears in his eyes as he looks at the fire.

“Am I disturbing you?” He inquires. Lancelot immediately doesn’t trust the politeness and almost says yes, but Pym shakes her head, “good. I need your help.”

“What for?” Squirrel asks.

Lancelot settles a hand on his shoulder as Merlin leans down. He relaxes his fingers, preparing to clap his hand over the boy’s mouth.

Merlin is well within spitting distance. 

“Sometimes when you drink too much, you need help stopping,” he says.

“You drink a lot,” Squirrel observes.

“More than you know,” Merlin says and straightens up, “but if I’m to be of any use, I need your help,” his eyes go to the book, “I’ll translate the rest of it in return.”

“I didn’t ask for payment,” Pym says.

“I offer it regardless, you’d be a fool to turn it down,” Merlin says.

Pym straightens up and Lancelot looks at her feet. Her toes curl against the stones but she flattens them and picks up the book. Merlin begins to look frustrated at her silence, but then he glances at the Fey Fire and back at Lancelot. He returns the look easily. If the promise being burned by Fey Fire keeps him under control, Lancelot is willing to let him think that.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” Pym says, “we’ll need some of the herbs that are drying. We can do this later.”

Merlin looks momentarily disappointed but nods and turns to leave.

“Try not to drink until then,” Pym calls after him.

“I make no promises,” he retorts.

Pym watches him go and gathers herself together.

“Should we get breakfast?” She says, “I think today is going to be long.”


	4. Chapter 4

Pym knots off the last of the tent and steps back.

The High Summoner’s book details a series of drinks that are supposed to detox various parts of the body, all of which can be helped by putting someone in a place where they can be subjected to a lot of steam. The fastest thing Pym can come up with is tent around a hole where they can put the pebbles and pour water over them to create steam. Lancelot moves silently, bringing the stones with him. Pym moves to needlessly check the knots.

“Are you sure?” He asks quietly.

Pym looks up as Lancelot piles the hot pebbles into the pit they’ve dug in the tent. She grips the book and nods. Steam is supposed to help. Though all of this is supposed to. The book is very clear that will must be there. She doesn’t know if Merlin wants to be sober more than he wants to be numb. She wishes that she didn’t understand the feeling. But the book is clear and she nods.

“I’m sure,” she says.

Lancelot nods and stands up.

“I’ll stay.”

“What?” She stares at him. He looks back at her calmly, but he is completely serious, “it’s not going to be pleasant,” she warns. He gives her a look, “right,” she says, remembering that things being unpleasant seem to be something Lancelot specializes in.

“Why are you going in?” He asks, “he can’t die.”

“He’s Nimue’s father,” she says, “and my patient,” he doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, “I haven’t left you alone to heal,” she points out.

He still doesn’t seem thrilled but he nods.

“Then I’ll stay.”

She knows there’s a risk to Merlin in his current state. Much as she wants to believe her relationship with Nimue is worth something, she doesn’t know if that gives her anything in the way of protection with a Druid. Lancelot being there is a relief. She nods to his offer. Pym gathers her braid up and pins it off her neck. Stripping to her chemise seems to be the easiest way to sweat through only one garment during this insanity. She tugs her dress over her head and folds it besides the tent.

“Alright we’re ready for you,” she says, “and you may want to take some layers off,” she advises Lancelot.

Merlin staggers up and looks at the tent. He makes a noise of disgust and nods at both of them. Pym knows this is going to be unpleasant for all of them. Merlin is shirtless but he takes off his overrobe and adds it to the pile of her dress. Pym motions him into the tent and turns around to see Lancelot add his outer garments to the pile.

It’s been a while since she’s seen his scars.

His healing works on the fresh wounds, but not healed ones. His back is a mess of pale lines from infected and irritated whip marks. Most of them were put there by his own hand, but from his reaction to being in this place she wonders how many were put there by his Brothers. She frown as he turns around. She recognizes the first wound on his abdomen that she sewed together before discovering his healing but he wears other marks from that time.

“Shouldn’t those have healed?” she asks. He looks at her curiously and she motions to his ribs. He raises his arm and looks at the the starburst marks. Her frown deepens and she steps forward, taking his hand and looking at the marks that circle his wrist, “these look the same,” she says. “Did they hit you anywhere else?”

“My cheek and neck,” he says, “but only once.”

“The same person?”

“It was hard to tell with the masks,” he says and smiles briefly at her glare, “I don’t know.”

“Your face healed better,” she says, “Some of them must have had iron weapons.”

It would make sense as they are enemies, but she thinks it’s a wonder his entire body isn’t covered in the angry burns. She tries not to think of the upcoming battles and wonder at how many of them have the metal. How many know how to use it and target him. There are other scars that are ugly but healed over. None seem to be from iron. Which almost makes her feel better as she lets go of his wrist until he turns. She can’t quite stop the inhale and he stiffens.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, “that looks—painful,” she says.

“It was,” he replies and though his voice is soft, it has a tone in it that notes this scar is different from the others.

It carves along his shoulder from just behind his collar bone to armpit in a neat, deep line. It’s long healed but so deep it changes the profile of his shoulder. There’s another line that’s nearly as deep. It carves up his outer arm and bisects the joint before reappearing on top of his shoulder. It’s surprising he can hold a sword at all.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she says.

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses quickly, “Merlin’s waiting for us.”

He ducks into the tent, effectively ending the conversation. Pym takes a deep breath, picks up the first of the brews and ducks inside. Lancelot settles himself against the side between her and Merlin, kneeling and tense. Merlin has himself draped out on the dirt like it’s a throne. Lancelot’s added fire to the rocks to keep them hot and the tent has taken on a pale green glow. Pym douses the stones with water and fills the tent with steam before handing Merlin the first thing he’s to drink.

“This is already unpleasant,” the Druid grumbles.

“It’s going to get worse,” Pym tells him.

“Well it’s good to know you have the bedside manner of every High Summoner I’ve met,” he says, curling his lip at the bitter concoction.

“I’m not the High Summoner,” Pym corrects, sitting back.

“What are you then?” Merlin asks.

“Just Pym,” she says.

Merlin looks at her for a moment and then laughs. Not cruelly, though Pym braces herself for that. It may be the first time she’s heard him laugh with no cruelty in it. Through the steam she sees Lancelot’s eyes narrow at the line of questioning and his weight shift slightly.

“So why are you here and not passing me these terrible things through the entrance?” Merlin asks.

“Because you’re my patient.”

“No no,” he says, taking a drink and wincing as he draws himself up, “that’s not all of it,” he shifts into a seated position, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, “that’s not all of it,” he repeats.

Pym feels incredibly foolish, the moment he says the words she knows he’s right. That’s not all of it. The book says the will must be there and she’s not sure if she has it. Not anymore. She’s always been determined but lately all she’s felt is afraid. To the point where it’s stopped her. Paralyzed her. Worse, it’s done it in her own head. She’s always known right from wrong in there. Or at the very least, she’s always been willing to face things in there.

“Enough,” Lancelot cuts in.

  
“Calm down, Ash Man,” Merlin says. Lancelot glares at him, “let her answer.”

He looks over at her and then back at Merlin.

“We’re here to make sure you live, not answer questions,” he says.

“She’s here to make sure I live. You’re here for some other reason,” he winces at the bitterness as he finishes the cup and Pym gives him the next drought, “you could both distract me from my pain.”

“Which one?” Lancelot asks and Merlin laughs. Lancelot doesn’t return the gesture.

“You’re a lot funnier than I would have thought. I can see why you didn’t talk with the Paladins. They never had a sense of humor,” he shifts his weight and looks at them both through the steam.

“I want to know I can still be—“ she fumbles for the right word, “useful,” Pym blurts out, “keeping you alive is better than just being a coward.”

“A coward’s not a bad thing to be,” Merlin counters, “being a coward could keep you alive,” Pym looks down at her hands, feeling heat in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the steam, “you disagree?”

“I don’t want to just be alive,” she says finally.

Merlin leans forward with a hungry look on his face. One a lot closer to what Lancelot used to wear when she would use her power in the early days. On his face it’s even more terrifying.

“She said you wanted more for yourself,” he says. He doesn’t need to specify, “but that you’d never admit it,” he goes to lean forward more but Lancelot’s hand moves, “you didn’t have many prospects—“ he waves his hand around, “not that such stupid things matter.”

Now it is truly embarrassing. It makes sense that humiliation, worry, all of it would be the things she would feel first. She’s not even entirely sure the ice is still there or if it’s vanished in the steam. Like the steam has gone through her lungs and into her soul. Maybe it has. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, she tells herself. None of these stupid things actually matter any more. She doesn’t need an ancient Druid to tell her that. She knew it was ridiculous at the time. Lancelot doesn’t seem to understand or maybe he simply doesn’t care.

“Enough questions,” Lancelot cuts in, “we’re here to deal with your drinking and your grief.”

“Our grief is the same,” he says leaning back, “but me getting the alcohol out of my system will be a lot easier than getting her to not be shut down.”

“That isn’t your concern,” Lancelot says.

“He’s right,” Pym says. Lancelot turns to her in surprise, “but we can get Merlin detoxed so we can start there.”

She adds more water to the stones and lets steam fill up the tent.

“Somehow you’re the sanest one here, Ash Man,” Merlin says through the fog, “that’s really saying something.”

“Be quiet,” Lancelot says.

Pym closes her eyes and focuses on pulling the heavy air through her lungs.

It feels like days, not hours, when she emerges from the tent. The linen is sticky against her skin and her hair is damp with sweat. Lancelot and Merlin are both shiny with perspiration. Merlin looks ashen faced. Only Lancelot seems unaffected by the hours they’ve spent breathing in steam. But his hands tremble slightly as they take long drinks of water to replace what they’ve lost.

“I need—“ Merlin starts.

“Do not say a drink,” Pym cuts in.

“To piss,” he says, waving her off and staggering off.

Pym exhales and goes over to their clothes, making sure the book is still there and safe. The air is cool against her skin and the discomfort seems to burrow through the fog she’s been in. Naming the problem seems to do something. She can’t feel the ice cracking, but it’s as if she’s swept a hand over the frost. She can feel things moving underneath.

“Are we going again?” Lancelot asks.

“Yes,” Pym says, “as soon as Merlin gets back,” Lancelot nods and she shakes her head, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to go back in there.”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“I don’t want you uncomfortable because I need to be in there,” she elaborates. 

“Do you want me to stay out?” He asks, “so you can speak to him?”  
  
“No,” Pym says instantly.

Speaking to Merlin is the last thing she wants to do. The Druid staggers up, looks between them, sighs and goes into the tent with minimal snark. Lancelot gives her a long look and then follows him in. Pym wishes to be anywhere else. Then she tightens the knot in her hair and follows them both into the steam.


	5. Chapter 5

Lancelot refuses to indulge the memories.

He’s good at keeping himself in the moment, it’s a skill he’s been subconsciously doing for most of his life. Memories are better left in the past. There is no use in remembering things that cannot help. The only memories he’s relied on are the ones in his muscles. Or they were, for so long. Gawain was not the first to drag them up, but the combination was enough to undo all of Brother Salt’s work. He’s almost sad that he killed him before he could see the extent of the change.

The steam threatens to send him to a place he cannot go.

It’s familiar, the weight of it in his lungs. The way it curls in the air as more water gets added to the rocks. The Fire doesn’t help. But he can push all of that aside. The thing that he struggles against the most is the feel of the sweat on his scalp. His hair has not grown in, not fully. But the wide patch of skin is now dusted in hair. The scar is two smaller ones, both easily hidden. Losing the tonsure is not a bad thing, he’s made whatever peace he can with it. But sitting there and feeling sweat and hair on his entire scalp along with all the other factors makes it difficult to stay in the present. But he’s done harder things. And at the moment he is very aware of why it is important to be focused.

“Ash Man,” Merlin says, “will you kill me?”

“No,” he refuses, ignoring the temptation the request poses. Merlin sighs, “I doubt I could,” Lancelot adds.

“You could with your Fire,” Merlin says, something eager in his voice. Lancelot opens his mouth to refute the offer but Merlin’s speaking again, “have you killed anyone with it? Not by blowing up trees or melting ice, just with the Fire itself?”

“No.”

“Have you killed anyone at all, recently?”

“No.”

“Lost the taste for it?”

“I never had it,” he says.

Merlin looks surprised and he sees Pym shift her weight. Frustration settles in him as the sweat trickles down his neck and runs the divot of the scar on his shoulder. As it always does. It reminds him to focus on the present, to not get lost in the past. Even admitting he does not have the taste for killing everyone thinks he does comes dangerously close to a time he does not want to think about. Especially not with Merlin. He can feel the Druid staring at him, even through the steam.

“You’ve killed a lot—“

“I know,” he snaps.

“Merlin, enough,” Pym cuts in, hearing the tone in his voice.

Lancelot breathes deeply and focuses himself.

Merlin snorts.

“Just because you’re grateful he saved you from whatever that village had planned for you doesn’t mean you have to defend him,” Merlin points out.

“He did not save me,” Pym snaps.

“But you’re still grateful,” Merlin points out.

“Enough. Get out,” Lancelot says and gets to his feet, hooking a hand under the Druid’s arm and pulling him out of the tent. Merlin pulls his arm free and Lancelot thinks that only his knowledge of what Fey Fire can do keeps it from being a fight. Lancelot doesn’t waste the opportunity, “go. Come back when you’re under control.”

“I haven’t—“

“Go,” he repeats, unwilling to hear anything else from the Druid.

He turns and sees that she isn’t with him. He does not want to go back into the tent, but he isn’t here for his own comfort. So he parts the cloth and steps back into the steam. Pym is staring at the stones, but not in a panicked way. When he enters she looks up at him with recognition in her eyes. Recognition and guilt. He lowers himself back into his spot. The tent walls are thin, he knows she’s heard what was said outside.

“I’m not grateful you did what you did,” she says.

“I know.”

“But I didn’t want to be there without Nimue,” she admits, “I was so pleased when that boat left, even though it meant she was there when you arrived,” she presses her hands to her lips like she’s said something horrible, “she could have been far away living her life.”

He doesn’t point out that Pym had nothing to do with them being there. Pym knows that. Even in the mess of her grief she’s not a fool. He has treated her differently, but not like that.

“Did Nimue know you were unhappy?”

“I wasn’t—“ she starts and then cuts herself off, lower her head, “no,” she says finally, “I didn’t want to burden her,” she adds, “and I didn’t know at the time. I didn’t know until I came back with everyone.”

“I though your guilt was because you survived.”

She looks at him quickly, clearly surprised. He isn’t sure why it didn’t occur to her that other would think about why she was acting the way she was. If she truly thought she hid it well by pulling away. She’s surrounded by people who care about her, even if they do not know her as well as those who are gone. It’s only a matter of time. Time they have not had together yet, though the months they’ve spent feel longer than they should. Yet there are moments when it feels like no time has passed and this is how things have always been. As though they were all always meant to be together.

“I didn’t know I had so much,” she admits, “I thought I was just afraid to grieve.”

“The two are connected.”

She looks up at him through the steam and shakes her head.

“I can’t believe you’re explaining my emotions to me,” she says, “when we first met I thought you didn’t have any.”

He longs for more steam or the confines of his cowl. Of all the things he did to keep his face from being seen and his heart from being known. But he has neither so he dips his head.

“That was intentional.”

The tent flaps peel open and they both look at Merlin. He’s somewhat ashen faced, his veins have turned silvery. He doesn’t seem troubled by that and Lancelot accepts it’s probably his body healing himself. He walks over to his spot and sits before hunching over, as if his entrance has taken all the strength he has at the moment. Lancelot tenses, prepared for pull him out of the tent. Helping him is something Pym takes seriously but Lancelot doesn’t plan on sitting around and listening to him spew vitriol. Not when it’s directed at the person trying to help him.

“I think we can help each other,” he says. Pym’s eyebrows raise up, “we’re all trying to leave our past behind in one way or another. I drink. You’ve shut down,” he says motioning at Pym, “and you, you’re still more blade than you are a man—“

He’s on his feet before he has time to think the motion through. He doesn’t know how far Merlin has made it into his head and he has no intention of finding out. Killing for his own emotions has never been something he’s done, but harming people is. Merlin’s words about Fey Fire echo in his head as he reaches for it. On the ground, the Druid looks up at him in surprise but also with rabid hope, like Lancelot might actually pull off the thing he’s praying for.

The tent crashes down.

The cold air rushes in but Lancelot ignores the change in sensation, pushing the fabric out of the way and moving towards Merlin. Merlin hasn’t moved because Merlin wants to die. As the blood pounds through his ears, Lancelot thinks that he would be fine granting that wish. No matter how useful Merlin could be to Guinevere getting back her kingdom. Nothing is worth the headache this man causes. The vitriol he spews. They’re all better off if he’s gone. Actually gone, not gone like what Nimue has become.

Water dumps across his face and a moment later, pain erupts in his shun and then across the back of his skull.

He catches the bucket on the third swing.

Squirrel balks on the other end of the rope, but he grips it harder and sets his feet. Lancelot remembers the tent and the Fire. But when he turns he sees it’s still tied up on the other sides. He can smell Pym’s scent from her use of magic. There’s no magic on Squirrel, just determination. Lancelot lets go of the bucket and instead of toppling forward, Squirrel adjusts his feet and yanks it back, preparing for another blow.

“Well that’s infuriating,” Merlin remarks.

“Shut up,” Lancelot warns at the same time the words come from Squirrel’s mouth.

Merlin raises an eyebrow and looks between them.

“I’m starting to see the—“

“Please be quiet,” Pym cuts all three of them off as she comes out from the tent. She softens at Squirrel, “thank you,” she says to him. He puffs up before she turns to the two of them, “this is ridiculous,” she says, “I want to hear your idea,” she tells Merlin, “after you apologize.”

Merlin looks at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not to me,” Pym says, “to him. I’ve said horrible things to him and nothing did what you just said,” she continues, “my brain is not the part of me that’s shut down” she adds, “you did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” Merlin says finally, “but not the purpose you think,” he adds, getting to his feet, “though that would have been a desirable outcome.”

Pym folds her arms and stares him down. Merlin looks back at her as Lancelot pulls back his anger. None of them have any business in staring down Merlin like this. It’s been months since he’s seen it, but Lancelot is aware that Pym has a talent for starring down things and people she shouldn’t. And as usually seems to be the case, Merlin holds her gaze for a moment longer and then sighs, looking first at the heavens and then at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“How did you know?” Lancelot asks flatly, glancing at him for any signs of magic.

“I overheard you and that Paladin one night,” Merlin says, “you all sleep in tents,” he looks at Squirrel, “you look like you know how thin they are,” Squirrel nods, “so no magic if that’s what you were worried about.”

Whether or not Merlin has any magic is something none of them are certain of. Not even Merlin himself, as far as Lancelot can tell. His magic was tied to the Sword and despite having reclaimed it, the blade went to Nimue who gave it to Arthur. It’s not really Merlin’s anymore. Lancelot realizes that it is a simple answer, but it doesn’t change the affect of Merlin’s words. He can still feel his pulse. Words are harder to focus on. Focusing on the water dripping down his scars is not a good idea and the two solid whacks from the bucket are not painful enough to even matter.

So he focuses instead on Pym’s scent.

She exists very firmly in the present, despite the distance between them and her retreat in the wake of Nimue’s death. She and Squirrel have been there for every calculation he’s made in the past few months. Or their scent has. But having just used her magic, Pym’s is the one that’s more potent. The more time he spends around them the more he’s able to recognize the small details that make up the scent of each individual. Right now he doesn’t pick it apart, he just focuses on the thing that grounds him to the present.

“Did I hurt your head?” Squirrel asks, dragging him even further out of his thoughts.

“No,” He assures him.

“Because I really just didn’t want you to do something you might regret,” he explains.

Lancelot nods his thanks.

“Your balance is better,” he says.

“I have a good foundation,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot gives the barest approximation of a smile. But Squirrel catches onto what the gesture is trying to be. The situation is miserable but he feels proud of what Squirrel did. He’d still be outmatched in a fight, but actually swinging a makeshift weapon and getting a few solid hits in is progress. Even if just a little. Pym stands in front of him and gets his attention. She looks far more direct than he’s seen her in some time. Like she’s more in her element.

“Merlin wants us all to go in and talk,” she says, “are you comfortable with that?”

“Let’s go,” he says.

“No,” Pym stops him, “I asked if you were comfortable with it. Do you want to go in there and talk?” She asks, “clearly it’s easy to attack someone from outside the tent so you don’t have to.”

Lancelot looks at her. He does not want to go into the tent. He doesn’t want to hear what else Merlin has overheard. He doesn’t want Father’s words twisted and thrown back at him. Not by Merlin. He thinks of the way Pym looked at the scar on his shoulder. He’s not sure he wants anything to come from Merlin and not from his own lips. But he looks at the determination painted on her and knows that she doesn’t want to be in there either. He looks at the fallen tent and thinks of the way he’s felt about this place as the memories come to him.

“I know,” he says and looks back at her, “let’s go.”

Pym opens and closes her mouth and then nods, touching the ropes of the tent again. Lancelot takes a deep breath of the cool air, tinged with her scent as she does her magic and looks at Squirrel.

“I know I know,” he says, filling the bucket back up with water, “I’m going. I was just coming to check on you.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot says.

“We’ll tell you what happens,” Pym promises, Lancelot nods.

Squirrel looks less than thrilled but he nods.

“Go tell Kaze about the bucket,” Lancelot tells him.

That seems to cheer him up and he happily goes off. Sensing his theatrics are not welcome, Merlin slips into the tent again and adds water to the stones. Pym takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to do it either,” Lancelot says.

“I do,” Pym counters, “I can’t keep doing this,” she shakes her head, “but I’m glad I’m not alone.”

She ducks into the tent.

Lancelot hesitates for a moment before he follows so she won’t be.


	6. Chapter 6

Pym fights the guilt.

She’s spent her life friends with people who are powerful. Who have bigger things to worry about than a simple girl from the village with nothing to her name. She’s learned that her needs are unimportant in the face of what they must do. She glances over at Lancelot and fights the urge to ask him one more time if he wants to go. Maybe he too recognizes that they cannot keep going like this. Her own fog is a new thing but she doubts Lancelot has thought of himself as a person in a very, very long time. And Merlin—she doesn’t even know where to start with Merlin.

“Drink this,” she says, handing him the next cup.

He takes a whiff.

“I recognize that,” he mutters and looks at her, “Did Lenore teach you?” Pym shakes her head, “Nimue,” he says.

“No,” Pym corrects, “that’s for the High Summoner. I just followed the instructions. Nimue kept her mother’s secrets.”

“For all the trust that built,” Merlin grumbles.

Pym cocks her head at him, an idea forming in her head. She’s never had a great deal of money or things truly worth trading, but she’s learned to recognize what people want. Whether or not Merlin wants to get better or be of she is anyone’s guess. He wants to help, she imagines Nimue said he must. But more than that, he wants to know about his child. Pym had years with Nimue, more time than anyone currently walking this earth. Merlin wants to know about her. Pym realizes that for once she doesn’t have to be particularly smart or clever. She actually has what he wants in a very simple, obvious way.

The rush of that is almost enough to outweigh her terror.

She forces herself forward. She cannot spend her life afraid of her own head, she’ll be useless if she does. If Lancelot can stare down his demons and choke out their names, she can at least try to do the same. The only thing she fears more than her grief is adding more regret to it.

Or having to face it alone.

“Why are you helping now?” Pym asks.

“The same reason you’re willing to accept it now,” Merlin says, “grieving takes time. It’s easier not to feel. But the longer you do the harder it is to come back from that. If you come back at all.”

Pym fists her hands in her shift and does her best not to look over at Lancelot. Though his is the first face she thinks about. She doesn’t feel good about her behavior, but she hasn’t pushed him. She’s retreated. It’s not nice but it’s better than the alternative. She knows she pushed him initially. When Squirrel more or less deposited him in her life and refused to move until he was accepted. But pushing him out of true anger and grief isn’t something she has ever wanted to do. The day has been an exercise in how terrible it is. It’s erased her doubts about struggling with the Fey’s belief they are all brothers. It’s shown her the other side and she doesn’t know how anyone has the stomach for it.

She’s grateful to have him sitting there.

“I know,” she says, “Nimue and her mother did trust each other. They were close.”

Merlin leans back with an appreciative nod, as if he’s recognizing what is going on. Pym has no intention of telling him important things, those aren’t what he’s after. He wants to know the minutia. She’s the only one who truly does.

“And what about you, Ash Man?” Merlin asks, “did you come just to protect the fair lady?”

Pym snorts. They both look at her. She’s been called many things over the past few months but ‘fair lady’ is by fair the most laughable. It makes her think of Nimue, of the Kings and Queens she hears stories about. Even the most brash of stall keepers wouldn’t have called her that.

“He’s here to protect me, but I’m hardly a lady,” she says.

“You’re going to have to get used to titles,” Merlin says, “Just Pym,” Pym ignores the shiver that makes her feel, “well?”

Lancelot flattens his palms against his thighs and shifts his weight. Being put on the spot is not his forte. Even now that he’s more widely accepted by their traveling group. He’s not used to being asked for his words or having them mean something. Not unless they involve tracking or fighting. Pym thinks about Merlin’s words. More blade than man. It makes sense, you don’t take a sword out to ask how it’s doing. Aside from a few uses, it’s meant to stay put away.

“I’ve been remembering more,” he says finally, “it cripples me.”

“As memories can,” Merlin says.

“No,” Lancelot says, “I panic. I can’t control it.”

Pym feels her mouth go dry. She’s been experiencing the same thing. Lancelot’s eyes dart over to her and there’s understanding in them. She knows she hasn’t been hiding it well. But she’s seen Lancelot around others and he’s seemed alright. Though it would make sense that he would hide them better than her.

“Why are you afraid of your memories?” Merlin asks.

She sees Lancelot tense as he looks into the fire. Merlin’s eyes narrow and he cranes his neck, looking at Lancelot’s back.

“Or is it the remembering itself?”

Lancelot stares ahead as though lost in the Fire. Pym decides that now is not the time to be afraid and shifts the way she’s sitting. The movement is small but Lancelot’s eyes are instantly on her.

“Why are you afraid?” She asks, making sure there’s no judgement in her voice. 

“It was important that I didn’t remember,” Lancelot says.

Merlin catches her eye and jerks his head towards Lancelot’s back. Pym wants to tell him to stop whatever it is he thinks he’s doing. But Lancelot sees him and lets out a long breath before he leans forward. Pym isn’t sure if she’s supposed to look. When Lancelot doesn’t want to speak on something he’s good at communicating it. Even without words. His eyes dart towards her and she realizes that he does mean for her to look. It’s hard to see in the steam but perhaps that is also the point. She thinks that maybe Lancelot doesn’t have the words.

She’s seen his back before, but in a much quicker glance. Her focus was on the infected wounds that crossed his back. Then it was on his healing ability. Studying his skin was never something she did. The infected flog marks that have healed are more than she can count. It reminds her of spider’s web or the silk cocoons she sees sometimes at the market. Like it’s not skin. It’s not how Tristain’s back looks. It takes her eyes a moment to get past those scars.

The first she sees is that the line on his shoulder is much, much longer. It carves down his shoulder blade, breaks at the curve of his spine and then continues almost to his right hip. The webbing the scars give his skin changes at his lower back. It becomes finer and the straight lines become warped and molted. Burning, her mind supplies. The deep gouge on his left collarbone also extends farther, almost over his shoulder. It bisects another deep gouge. Along the left side of his spine there’s a still raised line, too sharp and straight and perpendicular to his spine to have been put there himself. There are several other marks but they are deeper and fainter whip marks, too broad and precise for him to have done them himself.

Of all the scars, those are the faintest and the most warped.

He’s grown since he’s gotten them.

Pym thought it was cruel what he said about Brother Salt making them switch rooms to see how he reacted to such a familiar place. But that’s a cruelty she understands. The cruelty on his skin is something else entirely. She remembers Lancelot saying he had to judge what marks to heal. She can’t imagine being a boy and having to make those calls. If he was even capable of such a thing. The scar that cuts across his back from his left flank to his right armpit should have killed him. It doesn’t take much to draw the conclusion that the people he swore his life to were the ones to put it there.

She’s seen swords being forged. She knows the work it takes. But she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to look at one the same.

Lancelot was right not to speak. She doesn’t know if anyone has the words for what she is seeing. Not when she’s seen what he’s become. It’s not as simple as what she’s seeing excusing what he’s done. It doesn’t. It’s another piece of who he is. She can see how the man who she knows was responsible for the destruction of her home was also the boy who was split open by a sword. Neither changes the fact that she would choose him to be in the tent with her and Merlin over most people.

She hesitates only a moment before she settles her hand on his shoulder.

“Remember through that is hard,” Merlin says, “did it take months?”

“Years,” Lancelot says.

  
Merlin nods and Pym doesn’t know how anyone can be so calm about it. It’s years of torture mapped out along his skin before he even touched the flog himself. Years of his memories and beliefs being pushed away by pain inflicted by the people who used him. Pym has loathed the Paladins for a long time, she didn’t think she could want them dead more than she did a few moments ago.

“So what’s breaking through it? This place?”

“Tristain,” Lancelot says, “I hadn’t smelled another female Ash Folk since I left with the Paladins.”

“You must have thought you never would again,” Merlin says, “you put all your memories with something that you thought would never unlock,” he takes a drink, “probably your mother. Do you have any siblings?”

“I don’t remember,” Lancelot says.

“Not yet,” Merlin corrects.

The muscles under her palm tense and Pym sees his jaw tighten. The prospect of remembering is terrifying, even if the memories aren’t. Or maybe they are. The thought occurs to her and she’s almost afraid to ask.

“Do you remember how you got them?” She asks.

Lancelot looks up at her and the defeated look on his face tells her everything. Even before he shakes his head. Pym is afraid of confronting her emotions but she remembers what she’s afraid of. Lancelot doesn’t even remember that. It’s just memories and pain all tied up together. Pym looks down, wondering how on earth you navigate through something like that. Then her eyes catch the pebbles.

“I have an idea,” she says, “pinch your nose and finish that,” she orders Merlin. Then she takes the cup from him, “can you pull some of the pebbles out of the Fire? A dozen?”

Lancelot nods and reaches in, pulling out a handful of them. The green reaches for his fingers but he pulls them away. Pym motions him to put them nearby. He does and looks at her curiously.

“You need to lay on your stomach,” she says.

Lancelot looks at her for a moment before he obeys. Pym picks up the stone in the cup and maneuvers it onto his back, placing it along the straight line that runs parallel to his spine. She puts several stones down it and maneuvers the others onto the scars, taking care not to touch the longest one. Each stone makes him tense and his fingers curl, but not from pain.

“This is supposed to help,” she says.

“It’s not,” he replies.

“Just give it a minute,” she scolds.

“Your bedside manner needs some work,” Merlin comments dryly. Pym fills the cup and he pulls a face, “what do the emotions feel like?”

Pym realizes this is the longest stretch she’s gone without thinking about the ice and the emotions that churn underneath. She looks down at the mess of Lancelot’s back and the pebbles that dot it.

“It feels like they’ll never stop,” she says, “like I’ll drown in them.”

“And you’ll never emerge,” Merlin finishes, “you may not,” he says. Pym stares at him, “but you’ll learn how to breathe. But you’re always going to exist with the loss. It’s already a part of you.”

Pym feels the tight feeling in her throat and pushes it away. She knows that he’s right. She does exist without her home, without Nimue, she always has. From the moment that she saw her slip beneath the waves. But it’s been easier to pretend that she is still in that moment. She hates hearing it from someone else, but at the same time she’s been unable to tell it to herself. She still exists in the headspace of holding her breath, like Nimue took her last. And if she keeps doing it, the world doesn’t need to keep spinning. Time doesn’t need to move on. She doesn’t need to move on.

But she does.

“The High Summoner made the most bitter teas. Nimue used to give me honey so they wouldn’t taste so terrible.”

She sees Lancelot’s fingers dig into the dirt and she’s grateful not to watch the information affect Merlin, focusing instead on him. A stuttered breath escapes his lips.

“Lancelot?” She says, “are you—-“

“Don’t,” he says sharply as she reaches for the stones, “please.”

  
“Alright,” Pym says pulling her hand back. Merlin leans forward intently, “we’re here,” she says, touching the back of his hand, “just keep breathing.”

Lancelot gives the barest nod and expels the air from his lungs.

Pym mentally sends and apology to Nimue and forces herself to finally do the same.


	7. Chapter 7

He regrets it as soon as the stones touch his back.

He agrees but he wants to put a stop to it. He wants to say he changed his mind. That this is not where their focus should be. Changing his mind is something he has never excelled at. He cannot remember being a boy but he imagines he was not good at it even then. His stubbornness has always been an asset. It’s let him push past things that would have crippled lesser men. But the knot in his stomach makes him want to speak up. He pushes past it and does as instructed, trying not to jump as the stones settle on scars no hands have touched in years.

Swords are not afraid.

He hasn’t said the words to himself since he was a boy. A boy who was weak enough to need something to cling to, no matter if he deserved it or not. He doesn’t have the words for what happened back then. It’s lost in a haze of pain and fear. To Brother Salt’s chuckle. He remembers being asked things and answering them. But if his answers were too Fey, there was pain. Cleansing pain, the suffering was supposed to help. Or maybe it’s just that he heard those words in between bouts of it. He clung to them like he did his own mantras. They were the things that existed outside of the pain and the blood and the fear.

He remembers the fear.

It tastes like bile in the back of his throat. His mind circles the events around the scars. The stones relax muscles he’s not sure he’s relaxed in years. The heat from his own Fire penetrates deeper. He can feel the difference between the deeply scarred skin and the less scarred. All of it is in one way or another. All focused on his back. He tries to remember why. There was a reason. But all that comes to his head is the sick moment that was absent of pain. By that time it was a foreign sensation. He remembers the weight of the flog in his hand. Their words saying it was his turn to cleanse himself now.

He hears his own voice echoing their words.

“Lancelot?”

It takes a moment for the name to register as his. Only the best swords have names and where he is in his head, he hasn’t earned that yet. He still cringes at the flog, even as he slings it over his shoulder. A hand touches the back of his and he remembers how to speak in the present. Even if at the time he couldn’t remember how to form words after days of silence.

“Don’t,” he gets out. The hand stops, “please—“

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. If he wants to be removed or stay where he is. The hand pulls back and he lingers in the memory. He watches the pride in Father’s face as he uses the flog on himself. The congratulations the other Paladins give Father, even as they look at him with mistrust. Even Brother Salt looks proud. In his forgotten memories he sees Father turn to Brother Salt. He tells him his work is done, that he too must be cleansed. Brother Salt asks to join him in his penance. Calls him his Weeping Brother. Says that he wishes to pray with his brother and to look upon His Work and see His Grace. He agrees.

He watches Brother Salt sew his eyes shut.

He doesn’t try to stop him, His Grace should be the last thing any of them see on this earth—

“Open your eyes.”

His eyes snap open. He’s in the tent. Merlin is crouched over him. The pebbles have been knocked off his back. It takes him a moment to realize he’s breathing hard, as though he’s run for hours. Not laid on the ground. His fingers are curled in the dirt, like he needs something to hold onto. He raises his head to see Pym kneeling in front of him, the book open in he lap. One of the pages is torn as if she’s flipped through it frantically. It takes a moment of them looking at each other for her to relax. Even just slightly.

“Lancelot?”

The name sounds foreign for another moment, even though he knows that it belongs to him. He’s no longer that nameless man. Though he’s always known his name, it took weeks from saying it the first time in ages to actually thinking of himself by it. The memory of the flog makes it difficult to bring himself back, to remember that he is Lancelot. He’s in a tent surrounded by Fey, by humans, even by a Druid and a—he doesn’t have a name for what Gawain is. But he’s there as well. He takes another deep breath before he forces his hands to unclench. He doesn’t get up though. He looks over at Merlin.

“Put them back.”

“Hold on,” Pym cuts in, “Merlin don’t you dare,” Merlin snatches his hand back and she looks at Lancelot, “just wait a moment.”

“No,” he says. She opens her mouth, “I need to go back. Merlin.”

Her eyes drag up. He looks over his shoulder at Merlin who seems quite confused as to how he wound up being the one caught in the middle of all of this. The Druid’s eyes dart between the two of them. Rather than take a position, he starts to move backwards and sits against the wall of the tent, folding his arms. Lancelot fights the urge to summon him back and turns to look at Pym. She has her lip caught between her bottom teeth as her fingers toy with the book pages. But he doesn’t let the fidgets fool him, there’s nothing yielding about her gaze.

“You weren’t responding,” she says.

“Use your magic,” he tells her. She looks confused, “it will strengthen your scent,” she looks down at the book, “it’s a stronger tie to here than my name.”

“They never called him by his name,” Merlin supplies, “I didn’t know you had one until we met on the ship.”

Pym closes the book and nods, not looking thrilled but agreeing none the less. Merlin decides to move and be useful, putting the stones back in the fire pit. Lancelot reaches in and removes a dozen new ones. Pym comes over.

“Should I put them on the same ones?”

Lancelot forces himself not to analyze her voice, he needs to know. He will figure the rest of it out later. He shakes his head and tries not to jerk as she lightly touches his left shoulder. The skin is worse where she puts them. It takes a bit for the heat to even start to seep in. The scar is worse and better than the others. He did heal himself after it was dealt, though the prospect of creating Fire kept him from healing it as much as he should have. Pym’s hair brushes his ear as she puts a stone where his shoulder touches the ground and another at the outer edge of his arm.

Panic crashes through him but he forces himself to breathe and push though it.

It’s just a scar.

It’s just a scar.

Swords are not afraid.

He wasn’t at first. He remembers Father looking down at him, some impossibly red monster with beads at his waist and a hungry look in his eyes. But there is anger. He knows he should fear the anger. That this man is not to be trifled with. Even as a boy he knows it. There was something heavy in his hand, his muscles remember aching as they gripped its impossible weight. He remembers scrambling from the chair he was tied to and grabbing the nearest thing he could reach. Deciding that it was better to die than be dragged around. He was going to run. And if anyone got in his way he was going to cut them down. He looks up at Father and tries to understand why the thought takes so long to come, why the plan takes so long to remember. He hasn’t eaten in days and the water stopped tasting funny. They haven’t drugged him. He looks at the sword on the ground and tries to grab it.

But his fingers won’t move.

He watches blood drip from them onto the ground and realizes that it’s his blood on Father’s blade. It was two quick swings, first to his back, then to his front. His arm as stopped working and the sword is laying on the ground. He doesn’t feel anything at first, then it’s almost like an itch. The itch becomes a scratch and then it’s like hot claws are digging into his back and his shoulder, though his arm remains numb. Every beat of his heart makes it hurt worse. He drops to his knees and the red specter of Father takes up his entire field of vision. He feels copper fill his mouth.

“Bless you, my child,” Father says, “though you spit in the face of God, may he see fit to save you from the Hellfire. Amen.”

The dirt rises up to meet him as he hears Father speak in a strange tongue and sees him make the sign of the cross above him as his fingers dig into the dirt and find the roots of a weed. The connection is instantaneous and the weed is long and elaborate. He vaguely remembers that if he can find a weed, he’ll be safe. Weeds always have hidden strength. He pulls at it as his cut organs heal and follows the weed to a tree. He pulls the power from it, watching it decay as his flesh starts to knit together. He hears it about to crack and rips his hand free, rolling onto his back. His throat itches as he scrambles up. The tree cracks and falls, but it doesn’t burn.

Father watches and turns to him. He hauls him up. His shoulder aches. His entire arm aches and he thinks he cries out. Father pulls apart the hole and examines the skin underneath. Father’s hands are rough. Every touch aches deep in his skin. He can’t remember home but he aches for it, even though he knows that it’s his fault he doesn’t have one.

“This is miraculous,” Father breathes, coming to his front, “He has a purpose for you, my son.”

“But I’ve always been—“

His head snaps to the side. The new pain is inconsequential as the jarring movement sends fire along the half healed wound. Before he can touch it, Father grasps his hands. He doesn’t know why it’s a bad thing to say he’s always been able to heal like that. Even before he knew about the god they worship.

“It’s a Miracle from God. I will make you our sharpest blade so you may do His Work.”

The words echo in his head.

God’s work.

The pain and fire overwhelm him even as the ground under his feet changes to the black stones. He’s standing outside a place he doesn’t remember. Everything is on fire. Not green fire, red fire. And the red makes it looks so different. They have no need for any other kind of fire. He hears voices he recognizes scream but he can’t move. His jaw and his hands hurt so badly. A nameless man in red settles a hand on his shoulder. He wants to scream. He wants to throw himself in there with the rest of them but he can’t. His mother told him not to. No matter what. Stay alive and stay away. And keep his mouth shut. His left collarbone hurts. But he knows it would have been better if the knife his uncle held found his throat and their secrets bled out with him. It would have been a mercy. Instead he turned his head and he ran like a coward instead of dying with the rest of them as the Paladins arrived.

The sharp scent hits him and his eyes snap open.

His body moves out of his control as he scrambles back. The stones are gone but the rest of him still scurries back with limbs that are too long and broad. He’s aware his chest is heaving but the thick steam is too much like smoke. His hand finds the cool air and before his mind is fully back, he throws himself from the tent and into the cool air. It’s darker than when they went in and that doesn’t help. He still feels trapped in those horrible nights as he braces his hands on his knees and fights the urge to run until his legs give out. He doesn’t realize the wounded sounds that punctuate each wretched breath belong to him. Not at first. Someone touches his shoulder and he turns, slamming them into the nearest tree and bracing his forearm against their throat. They’re smart, their hands immediately go up and away from their weapons.

“You’re alright, do you know who I am?” It takes his mind a moment to recognize the face. Arthur. He gives the barest nod but his arm doesn’t move. Neither does Arthur, “it’s alright, it’s okay—-everyone just stay back. Give him a minute. No, no look at me. You know I’m not here to hurt you. Just look at me.”

He can manage that. Arthur matches the heaving breaths he’s taking and when they breathe together, he starts to breath out longer. He can do that.

“Good, I’m going to move your arm—“ he pushes it down to a more comfortable place on his chest, “good, we’re just going to stand here for a minute,” he feels the muscles in his arm relax fractionally. It’s enough for Arthur to carefully lower it. He keeps himself against the tree, blocking Lancelot’s access. “Good. Can you get me some water?” He reaches behind him and presses a cold waterskin into his hands, “take a drink, you’ll feel better.”

The water helps him even further. It feels like he’s settling into his own skin. He’s aware of himself in a way that he’s not sure he was before. He doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. Arthur jerks his head and Lancelot turns around. It looks like half their traveling party is there in various states of being armed and dressed. Even Squirrel looks ashen faced. Kaze keeps her grip on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says to Arthur and his throat screams in protest.

“Well my clothes and skin are in one piece so let’s call this even,” he says, “we’re alright, you should all go back.”

“Like hell,” Guinevere says, pushing Pym farther behind her and walking up, “no-one is leaving him alone with anyone.”

“What happened?” He asks and everyone cringes at how hoarse his voice is. The kind smile Arthur wears slips and true worry takes over his face.

“You were screaming,” he says.

Until that moment, Lancelot wasn’t sure he remembered how to scream.

It’s an ability he would rather not have regained.


	8. Chapter 8

“Stop pacing. He’s fine,” Merlin says, not lifting the arm flung over his eyes, “he’s with the chosen one and a man whose defied death.”

Pym ignores Merlin. He has no way of knowing if they’re fine. She’s worried about all of them. It’s been a long time since she’s been afraid of Lancelot. But since Merlin called him a blade, that fear is back. It’s not the same. She was afraid of the quiet, controlled and shut down believer who had caused more death than she can fathom. She has no idea what to do with the wild thing that Lancelot just became. Twice. She never thought she would understand why the Paladins kept him so controlled. It makes her skin crawl to think that she does.

“They should be back by now,” she says.

Merlin sighs and lifts his arm. Pym doesn’t break her pacing. She vaguely remembers Guinevere leading her away and it making sense to stay with her patient. Equally vaguely she remembers scrubbing herself clean of the sweat and the shock of the cold water against her flesh. The underdress that Guinevere gives her is like nothing Pym’s ever worn. She would say that it’s stolen but the garment seems to never have been worn. It’s fine too and made of some kind of fabric Pym’s never felt before. It’s the finest thing she’s ever put on. The outer dress is also far nicer than anything she’s worn, with lacing up the sides that form intricate loops. But none of that compares to the colors. The deep violets are so expensive, Pym understands why Guinevere didn’t wear these around. One look is all it would take to know she was a princess.

“I’m going after them,” Pym says.

“I feel faint,” Merlin remarks laying back down.

Pym grinds her teeth and turns away. She knows that Merlin is playing the part to keep her from running off into the woods to find them. But on the incredibly slim chance he isn’t, she can’t just leave him there to suffer. She walks over and looms over him. She’s not particularly intimidating but she does her best to will him to put his arm down and look at her. He lowers it fractionally and cracks open an eye.

“Why are you doing this?” He raises an eyebrow, “I thought it was to honor Nimue or to learn more about her. But that’s not it. So why?”

Merlin sighs and sits up, a very old look coming onto his face. Pym braces herself for the answer.

“I saw something,” he says, “when I tried to join her. I saw a great city. Lead by great people who would do wondrous things. I saw greatness and then I saw peace. With my daughter,” he looks up at her, “the only way I get that peace and the time that was stolen from us is if I make that city come to pass.”

The selfish answer shouldn’t surprise her. Of course it’s not Merlin wanting to help because it’s the right thing to do. Why would she ever think that. She resumes pacing but Merlin doesn’t go back to lying down.

“He was there,” Merlin says, “so were the others,” Pym ignores him, “I didn’t see you.”

“Why would I be in some great city you saw in a lake?” Pym questions, reminding herself there’s no reason for the knot in her stomach. Not over some ridiculous statement like that. Merlin shrugs, “so all of that was to help Lancelot be in your city,” she says.

“Not entirely,” he looks at her, “you were the only one not there.”

“Can you not talk in riddles?” Pym demands, “maybe I did before you get to your city. Maybe only warriors can go there. I don’t know,” she throws her hands up, “it’s your vision.”

There’s the sound of movement outside the door. Merlin opens his mouth but Pym ignores him and crosses the room, pulling open the door. Arthur looks tired, more tired than she’s seen him and he’s always tired. Living on the road is exhausting in a way Pym didn’t consider. Gawain moves next to him and even he seems more human than she’s witnessed. Like he used to look when he came back from a long journey and he would need hours to collect himself before seeing either her or Nimue. They both stop talking as she stands there and Pym shoves the familiar feeling away. She’s used to conversation dying as she walks into the room. Tonight she doesn’t have the patience for it.

“Well?” She says.

“He’s with—“ Arthur starts.

“Goliath. I figured,” she says, “is there anything I should know?”

“He’s not speaking,” Gawain says, “except to say he wanted to be alone.”

Pym hesitates for only a moment before she ignores the advice. She knots the dress so it stops dragging and walks out of the church. Out of all the ridiculous things she’s heard, the suggestion that she listens to Lancelot wanting to be alone is the most preposterous. If he tells her to leave that will be a different story and she will deal with that if it happens. She pauses to check on Squirrel and he’s curled into a tight ball. She touches his shoulder and he looks at her.

“I’m going to go check on him,” she says. He nods, looking more like a child than she’s seen him recently, “he’s going to be alright.”

“I know,” Squirrel says, “he said they were going to do those things to me.”

“But they didn’t,” Pym promises him, “and Lancelot’s going to be alright.”

“Are you?”

She nods.

“We all are.”

There’s a tap at her shoulder and she turns to see Bors standing there, clutching his toy. He looks afraid as he rubs his eye but then he thrusts it out at her.

“It makes me feel braver,” he explains.

“Oh—“

“Give him this too,” Squirrel says, taking off the amulet and passing it to her.

She doesn’t know what has happened but by the time she leaves she has half a dozen toys and trinkets from the various children and a blanket. If they are afraid, it’s not nearly as powerful as them wanting to make sure he’s alright. Pym wraps them in the blanket and promises to try to give them to him. Thankfully none of them follow her. She’s not sure she has the heart to tell any of them they need to stay behind.

She finds him easily in the field where they’re keeping the horses. He’s sitting cross legged and Goliath is nearby, his tail swishing lazily. She knows it’s him but it takes her a moment to accept the way he looks.

He looks like a Fey.

Gawain or Arthur brought him different clothes. She recognizes the naturally imperfect weave that man made clothes can’t replicate. His hair is down and almost dry. It’s gotten longer since she’s last seen it down, it’s nearly to his shoulders and curls as it dries. He’s not weeping or screaming, he would almost look at peace if she didn’t recognize the terrifying stillness that’s been trained into him. He glances at her but doesn’t say anything so she steps forward. Goliath raises his head, deems her not a threat and returns to grazing.

“I can go if you want,” she offers, “I just wanted to see you were—“ she hesitates, “your version of alright.”

His lips quirk up barely but even that flicker feels like a victory.

“Stay,” he rasps

She apologizes to Guinevere sits down, trying to keep the dress from getting too wet. Guinevere doesn’t seem like she cares but it hurts Pym’s head to think about how much the dyes and workmanship must have cost to create it. The hemp colors of Lancelot’s clothing wear far better. Or maybe it’s just the familiarity of what her fingers know. Even if it’s strange to see on him. She wishes she had thought to bring something like water or tea, but her only thought was getting to him.

“I can get you something for your throat if—” she offers. He looks at her sharply as she’s about to get up, “if it would help,” she finishes.

“I’m—“

“You don’t have to say you’re alright,” she says, “I can stay instead?” He nods and she settles back, “I should have brought a stick for you to write with.”

He looks at her quietly for a moment and then turns, digging his hand under the grass. The grass turns to ash. Goliath snorts in protest and he turns his hand, carefully piling the ash out of the way in a spot that’s already been grazed. Goliath gives a slightly aggressive flick of his tail. Lancelot brushes his hand across his forehead and his other across his pants. Pym presses her lips together so she doesn’t have to tell him not to do that.

“I’m glad you did that,” she admits, “but I wasn’t going to push you to tell me.”

“But you want to know,” he says, his voice no longer hoarse. She glances away, “I didn’t remember everything.”

“I want to make sure you’re alright—your version of alright,” she corrects, “more than I want to know.” He considers her words quietly. “Arthur and Gawain said you weren’t speaking,” she says.

“It’s not something I wanted to tell them,” he says after another moment of consideration. His throat his healed, but his voice takes on the hoarse edge. She thinks it’s muscle memory at this point, “I think I might forget it again.”

“Maybe that would be best,” she says, trying not to think of the way he screamed.

“Can I—“ he drags his eyes away before they come back to her, “the memories aren’t good.”

“I know,” she says, “you can tell me if you want,” she volunteers. He hesitates, “I’ve seen horrible things,” she reminds him, “and you told me about that room.”

“This is worse,” he says quickly.

“I guessed as much,” she says, “I’ve never heard you—“ she cuts herself off. She doesn’t want to push things away but she is doing her best not to remember the sounds he was making, “I’ll listen if you want to tell me,” she says.

He nods. But he doesn’t seem to know where to start. She doesn’t blame him for being at a loss, she thinks even someone who spoke perfectly would struggle.

“You could start with the first ones?” She says, motioning to her back.

“Brother Salt,” he says, “the one who killed Gawain and was going to torture Squirrel. He was responsible for testing my loyalties,” he says, “until I was willing to do it myself.”

“Those marks are deep,” she says.

“They needed to be certain,” he tells her. Pym forces herself to not look horrified, “when they were sure, when I picked up the flog myself—he sewed his eyes shut in penance.”

“He did what?” She sputters, unable to stay silent and impassive, “if he had such a problem with it, wouldn’t it be easier to just not torture children?” She questions, trying to push aside her feelings.

“I wasn’t a child by the end of it,” he says.

She opens her mouth to protest and thinks better of it. He said he wanted to tell her and she is determined to listen. She also doesn’t want to excuse what followed. That is a thought that still lingers in the back of her mind like an aftertaste. Though she understands better, she has since that day in the woods. Neither of them wants to excuse what he has done. She almost wants to say that he shouldn’t keep going. But his fingers curl and she lets him continue.

“I tried to escape,” he says, “once. I picked up a sword and I tried to run,” a hollow look comes onto his face, “I didn’t understand why my arm stopped working,” he says, “Father told me I was going to die but there were weeds in the ground.”

“You healed yourself,” she realizes.

“He called it a miracle from God,” Lancelot says, “when I told him I had always been able to do it, he corrected me.”

She sees his jaw clench and it doesn’t take much to guess at what a Paladin thinks correction is. Lancelot is quiet for a moment before his shoulders hunch in a way that makes Pym’s neck ache.

“I forgot I had tried to escape,” he says, “when we ran, they asked if Squirrel reminded me of someone. But I didn’t understand.” 

He emphasizes the last word. There’s so much confusion. So many things fitting together. He looks over at her and she nods. Something stubborn sets in his face, even with the hollow look in his eyes.

“I remembered the beach,” he says, “the night the Paladins came,” Pym forces herself not to hold her breath, “we were supposed to keep the secret of the Fire,” he says, “children don’t keep them well. When they knew we were lost, they took us to the beach where there weren’t any roots. Though we barely knew how to heal. I—“ he trails off, “I turned at the last minute. I ran. The Paladins found me and the ones who hadn’t had their throats cut.”

Pym has no words for what she’s hearing. The Ash Folk have been rumors for her entire life. But the rumors have never been kind. They have always been spoken about as ruthless and cruel. With power that none can understand. What they can do was lost to those rumors. But the idea that they would kill those they couldn’t trust to keep the Fire safe goes in line with what she heard. She thinks about Squirrel or any of the little ones and almost wants to be sick with the idea of them suffering that. For nothing more than being children who don’t know how to keep secrets.

What he’s done to the rest of their kind cannot be changed or forgiven. But for the first time she thinks she understands the secrecy that’s been drilled into him. It’s not a ghost story, not a threat. She thought it was seeing his family die in those fires rather than save themselves, but now she can see it’s much worse than that terrible thing. She had thought the scar on his collarbone was one of the more harmless—if any of them could be considered such a thing.

“That must have been terrifying,” she says, not sure if it’s right or wrong—if there even are the right words to say.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he nods.

“I don’t want to make things more complicated,” he says finally.

“You haven’t,” she assures him. He looks like he doesn’t believe her and she can’t blame him, “what you remember, it doesn’t make me think differently of you. You told me what I needed to know back in the woods,” she says, “but I can see why you didn’t want to be Fey, even without the Paladins.”

“I thought it was God making sense,” he admits.

Pym thinks of the cruelty she’s encountered from her own kind. It’s nothing compared to what he described and there were moments when she had wished to not be around them anymore. Childhood frustrations, teenage cruelty, nothing of any real consequence. Not like he is speaking of. No-one ever threatened to cut her throat, the worse that she suffered was being told no-one was going to want to be her friend or marry her.

“I think that’s what they wanted,” she says. He nods, “I’m sorry,” she says abruptly. He looks at her curiously, “I hoped there was—I don’t know. Some kind of happy memory mixed in there.”

“Does that help you?” He asks.

“Usually,” she says, drawing her knees up. Her change in positions make him shift towards her, “but what you—“

“What do you mean usually?” He cuts in.

Pym presses her lips together and glances away.

“You know what I mean,” she says, “don’t try to change the subject.”

He has the grace to duck his head, some of the humor returning to his face even though the worry is still there. Mourning a friend and her loss seems so foolish compared to what he has gone through. She doesn’t even know why it’s come up. She tightens her arms around her knees and he he angles more towards her after a moment. She frowns and looks at him.

“What are you doing?” He stares at her, looking not unlike a child whose been caught doing something naughty.

“You’re closing off,” he says.

Heat floods her face.

“Yes but how do you know that?” He looks at her quietly.

“Why?”

“Why do I want to know how you know that?” She asks.

“No, why are you closing off,” he says.

Now she feels like the naughty child. She’s not used to her body betraying her. Or maybe she’s just not used to someone noticing. Though Lancelot speaks this nonverbal language with unnerving fluency.

“I was thinking about how foolish it is to be shut down and afraid of feeling things when you have all that in your head,” she admits, “I just have a few bad memories. But a lot of good ones. I don’t have any reason to be afraid of my own head.”

“Yes you do,” he says. She looks at him. His brow knits together in frustration, “you shouldn’t be afraid of your feelings,” he says, “but you have as much a reason to be afraid as I do.”

“You’ve spent your entire life being tortured and manipulated,” she says, “that doesn’t compare—“

“It’s your life,” he says, not unkindly, “I don’t think it’s been easy.“

The heat in her face never going to go away at this point. She doesn’t know why Merlin’s words chime in her head about her not being there at the end of this in their great city. Maybe because Lancelot sitting there makes her realize she wants to be. It’s an unsettling thought. She dislikes the longing that seems to be burrowing into her.

“I came out here to check on you,” she says, “not talk about me.”

He manages something very close to a smile.

“I went in there to help you,” he points out, “not become the focus.”

She shakes her head.

“I suppose that’s what we get when this was all supposed to be about Merlin,” she says.

Goliath snorts and she takes that as an agreement.


	9. Chapter 9

Lancelot thinks this must be what purgatory feels like.

He feels as though he’s stuck between two very different places. He feels more like himself, but also not the same as he was before the memories came back. He’s spent longer than he can remember convinced of his own cowardice. It kept him rooted to the Paladins, it spoke louder than his own knowledge. How Gawain saw it, even when he was half dead, he doesn’t know. Now things are clearer. He knows that he was being used, but to him it made sense. A sword was used, cleaned and put away.

He knew how to be a sword.

Now, he isn’t sure he knows how to be anything else.

Lancelot forces himself to think his own name. To not go back to the place where he thinks of himself differently. He is Lancelot. Who that is in the grander sense of things, he cannot say. But it is his identity. He let it be wiped from his mind a very long time ago, he refuses to let that happen again. If all he can cling to are his name, the memory of Squirrel’s bravery, the feel of Goliath moving underneath his legs and Pym’s scent, he thinks he can at least not slip back to the nameless place.

“I have something for you,” she says, “several somethings,” she pulls the blanket over, “the young ones got worried about you spending the night out here.”

Lancelot thinks of how his throat feels, it’s clear he was screaming. But it’s been so long since he’s made the sounds. He thought it had been trained out of him after years of half remembered nightmares. He has no reference for how his throat is supposed to hurt for a certain amount of screaming. He can just bundle it together with ‘a lot’.

Pym opens up the blanket to a collection of children’s dolls. Comforting things they’ve brought from the home he helped take from them. Or things that have been made along the way as they’ve traveled. It’s a humbling thing to see the collection and to know what it means to the hands that placed them there.

“And Squirrel wanted me to give you this,” she adds, holding out the amulet that keeps getting passed between the three of them, “it’s your turn to wear it.”

He takes it carefully and the linen wrapped around her arm catches his gaze. He looks at her curiously and she sighs, nodding and putting her hand in his. He sets the amulet aside and carefully pulls up the sleeve of her dress, looking at the wrap around her forearm arm.

“It’s shallow,” she says, “it was the only thing I could think to do to after the magic didn’t seem to work.”

He wonders if the scars she’s acquired in their time together would be there if it wasn’t for him. Iron marks dot her skin in several places, though the largest is the mark on her hand from the shackles. It seems like a lifetime ago that they were on the boat. He thought that it was the most complicated place he had been. Now he thinks it may have been the simplest. The mark she’s cut on her forearm won’t even leave a scar, but it isn’t something he wanted to make her do.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” he says.

“Don’t be sorry, I shouldn’t have let you do that,” she tells him, “I’m just glad it worked.”

“I needed to know,” he says.

Pym doesn’t look convinced. She didn’t look convinced back in the tent when she had hesitated and he had insisted. They were his memories, he needed to at least start the process of unlocking them. Though he didn’t mean for it to go as far as it did. He thought that his biggest issue was going to be apologizing for being insistent and upsetting her. Not scaring everyone to the point of children deciding he needed security more than they did. He lowers her hand and she puts it back in her lap.

His back gives a terrible, un-ignorable itch.

“What’s wrong?” Pym asks, “you look frustrated all of a sudden.”

Lancelot doesn’t know how to tell her without upsetting her. The strangest thing with all of this is that it’s the first time in his adult life that his injuries and screams have been met with something other than punishment or judgement or more pain. It’s more unnerving than his first days with them when his injuries were healed but he was rightfully met with judgement and wariness. To have so many people fuss over him is almost more dangerous. It’s not something he understands and the desperation he can feel to want to understand it, to want to get used to it—that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

“Just an itch,” he says. Pym arches an unimpressed brow and he remembers her being so upset with his omission on the beach. It’s not a look he enjoys putting on her face, “my back always itches,” he explains after a moment, “since we met,” she frowns, not understanding, “I miss the flog,” he says finally. 

“Oh—of course you do,” she replies, only sympathy on her face, “you must have gotten used to it. I was afraid your back was infected.”

He shakes his head, relieved she doesn’t tell him he’s mad for missing it. He though the pain was tied to his faith and his control of his powers. His wickedness. And in many ways it was. But now he can also see how he was twisted into doing it. The connection was formed a long time ago. What was supposed to be penance was used by him and the Paladins. He used the action to make sure his powers had enough damage to heal that he wouldn’t reveal the Fire. They used it to make sure he was still under their control. It’s a bastardization of the action. It makes the itch worse, like someone is making it clear his suffering is needed as penance for what he did. Without an ulterior motive.

“Lancelot.”

He turns at the sound of his name as Pym covers his hand with her own. He realizes that both of his hands are clenched into fists. They are tight past the point of protecting the joints against impact and just purely into digging his nails as deep as he can into the heel of his palms. He forces his hands to relax and lets Pym look at his palm. The crescent marks from his nails are just dents. She looks from his palm to his face and he sees the worry there. It’s more emotion than he’s seen for months on her face.

“You’re losing control of your emotions,” she says, miraculously there’s no accusation in her voice.

“I know,” he admits, wondering what kind of cruel joke it is that they’ve switched places like this, “Kaze and I have been working on controlling the Fire without my emotions or injuring myself.”

“That’s good,” she says, “but I’m more concerned about you,” she admits, “have you been angry? Like you were in the tent?”

He shakes his head. It’s complicated, he’s sure he’s felt it. But he’s been in control of his emotions for so long, it’s rare they’ve gotten the best of him. Not since he learned to keep them down.

“I learned not to act on my emotions like that when Father cut me down,” he admits, “I wanted to leave him behind. Hearing those words made me think Merlin was in my head.”

“I can understand why you wouldn’t want that,” Pym says.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says abruptly, suddenly needing her to understand.

Something breaks across her face and she shakes her head, her fingers tightening on his hand.

“I know that,” Pym says, “you stopped yourself with him and with Arthur which is good.”

“No,” he says, “you’re different,” she looks at him in confusion, “your scent brought me back. Even when I was angry. It was different. I didn’t recognize Arthur at first, but I knew you,” he doesn’t know how to put into words what he’s trying to say. He can only curl his fingers around hers, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Her cheeks stain with color and she looks around as though collecting her thoughts. He holds himself still, waiting for her reply. Her knowing no matter how lost he got in his emotions he wouldn’t hurt her is more important than anything that’s mattered until this moment. She doesn’t pull her hand away and he wonders if she’s thinking about the things that she;’s witnessed him doing. Even after he’s become someone more than the sword who would cut down all the villages. He isn’t even sure how many Guard members he’s killed. She looks back at him finally and nods.

“I believe you,” she says, “it’s still frightening to see you like that,” she digs her teeth briefly into her bottom lip, “when the magic didn’t work, I didn’t know if blood would,” she tenses, “I was going to get closer to you but you didn’t seem to be in control of your body.”

“It worked,” he assures her, “next time it won’t take blood.”

“Next time?” She says, “can we get through this time first?” He looks down and she tightens her fingers on his hand, “Lancelot there’s no sense in you going back in your head if it destroys the person you are right now. I know you need to know, but there has to be a way to do it that won’t hurt you like this.”

He hears what she’s saying but it’s not what he wants to hear. He wants to go back and unravel everything. Take the poison in one gulp. He can recognize the familiarity of the feelings. From the first day they set foot on land again, when he wished to do the practical thing and protect everyone. It made sense, but he remembers the strange feeling of realizing that people were worried about him because of nothing more than their shared experience. They cared about him more than they cared about what he could provide them.

“I don’t know who I am now,” he says.

“You’re someone who has people that care about you,” she points out, “no matter if you remember or not,” her face softens, “I don’t think you find out who you are by getting lost in your past. I think you find it out by being here.”

Everyone’s reactions back up her point, but the answer isn’t the one he wants to hear.

“We can find a different way,” Pym says, “or a better way to do it. Maybe not while we’re trying to heal Merlin from drinking too much.”

He nods, even he can admit that makes sense. Much as he wishes it didn’t. But the ache and itch that seems to live under her skin and beg for the flog makes him think his own feelings are not so different from Merlins. Pym looks at him with naked worry and he nods again.

“Alright,” he agrees finally, realizing she needs to hear the words. They feel as though they’re binding, “we’ll find another way.”

She relaxes and he realizes that it might be the third time he’s seen her look less tense in the past months. Any lingering fear he had from watching her curl into herself physically is pushed back by hope that maybe it pushed things in a better direction. Or at least started the process of showing her she doesn’t need to hide herself from the grief. It’s not something anyone can do for her, but she’s no more alone than he is. But the feeling of not being alone is so new, he doesn’t know how to assure someone of it when he doesn’t understand it himself.

“Do you feel anything?” He asks.

Pym shrugs rather helplessly.

“I think so?” She says, “I always felt things but—I’m still afraid of everything,” he nods, “I guess it’s no so different from your anger.”

“I can help you back.”

He’s not sure where the words come from and for a moment Pym’s surprise seems like they are the foolish thing to say. She doesn’t have his abilities and he barely knows how to navigate his own emotions. But he can read her body language well enough. And after a moment her face breaks and she almost smiles, though she quickly looks away. Her hand loosens in his but she doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t let go.

“I thought only someone who knew me as long as she did could understand,” she admits, grasping his hand again, “I think you may be right. It can’t be worse than that tent.”

If the tent lead to this, he thinks it was not so bad.

“Are you sleeping out here?” She asks. He nods, “can I stay?”

“Yes,” he says, relieved at the prospect.

He hadn’t been planning on sleeping but it seems more a possibility now. She lets his hand go to spread the blanket out in an already chewed part of the field, standing up to scratch Goliath behind his ears. Lancelot picks up the toys that have been loaned to him and settles them in a pile, tucking the corner of the blanket around them to keep them safe. Pym lays down and he seat himself nearby. When she gives him a look he understands the healer’s orders and lays down next to her.

“Merlin will be fine,” she says aloud.

“You can check on him in the morning,” he says.

Pym seems to listen and nods, cushioning her head on her arms. It doesn’t take much for her to fall asleep. Lancelot stays awake a while longer before the sound of Goliath’s familiar chewing and the rhythm of her breathing lure him away.


	10. Chapter 10

She’s not cold when she wakes up, though she certainly expects to be.

Her eyes crack open to the sun. It’s the first time in a long time that she’s woken up to the sun being high in the sky and not just peaking over the horizon. Her immediate thought is that it’s very strange, especially considering how loud everything seems to be. Not to mention the hours spent yesterday in uncomfortable positions. She can feel the ache in her body. Even the borrowed, beautiful clothes feel unsettling and almost wrong. It takes her mind a moment to figure out what is going on.

Lancelot is not so much next to her as he is behind her. They’ve slept near each other since, well, since his first night at the camp. Though she had no idea he was in the tent. But there’s always been distance. Their sleeping arrangements have more or less been figured to Lancelot in the middle and closest to the opening, her on one side and Squirrel on the other. She thinks both she and Squirrel plan on waking him up if he has nightmares, as they both seem unwilling to move from the spot next to him.

Somehow in the middle of the night they’ve shifted towards each other and their backs are wedged against each other. She can’t feel his scars through their clothes but she imagines she can for a moment before she pushes the thought out of her head. What she can feel is his steady heart and the rhythm of his breathing. He’s still asleep. She realizes that even just laying there, her breathing has picked up on his rhythm again. It feels strange to lay there and breathe with another person, but it’s not a bad strange. It might be the best strange in a world of strange sensations.

It’s also the first time she’s woken up pressed against someone like this.

Heat rises in her face even as she vainly tries to fight against it and remind herself that there is a very long list of bigger things to worry about. And they have been sharing a tent. A few lost inches of space shouldn’t make any difference. But the sun on her face says otherwise. It’s not terribly late in the day, but certainly late enough. She pushes herself up slowly and realizes she never braided her hair. If he recognized her scent, maybe that’s for the best. He’s still asleep as she turns to wake him up.

He looks even more Fey, if that’s possible.

Pym doesn’t know why, maybe because the light and warmth of the sun are so much more like his fire. He’s been wearing his hood down more and the sun has tanned his skin, turning him from some pale specter into something she would recognize as Fey if they passed each other on the road. The marks on his face catch the light and reflect it away from his eyes. It surprises her how it doesn’t feel quite right. He’s always been Fey, making him look like one feels—oddly unnecessary, no matter how it probably helps others. She touches his shoulder.

“Lancelot,” she says, “we have to get up.”

His eyes crack open and for a moment he looks almost irritated at waking up. Then the world catches up to him and he turns, looking up at her. She quickly pulls back the piece of hair that falls against him, shoving it behind her ear. He slowly sits up, his own hair falling almost to his shoulders. Though it’s nothing compared to the length of hers.

“We slept late,” he says.

“I wasn’t expecting that either,” she starts, “a lot happened yesterday.“

“Sleeping against each other must have helped,” he says.

Pym clamps her mouth shut. Looking different doesn’t change his directness. Of all the ways he flounders, the physical side of things isn’t one of them. He doesn’t take whatever out she’s offering. She nods instead.

“I think it did,” she agrees, “you don’t have a problem with it?” He looks at her quietly and then shakes his head.

“I thought Fey slept together,” he says.

“They do,” she tells him, “but we’re not family,” she points out, “or of the same Folk—which isn’t a problem,” she adds quickly, “I don’t have a problem with sleeping against you. It’s the first time I’ve slept through the night in months—“ he touches the back of her hand as he sits up fully, “I just don’t want it to be uncomfortable.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

  
“Or for me,” she replies.

He nods and gets to his feet as she does. Goliath bats him gently with his nose and he strokes the horse’s forehead, whispering something to him in a language that Pym doesn’t speak. Goliath makes a noise and then lowers his head to start grazing again. Pym rolls the blanket up, mindful of it’s precious cargo and straightens with it in her arms.

Goliath whinnies unexpectedly, surprising her. She’s used to him making much softer sounds. But she’s spent enough time with them to know that he doesn’t make that sound for just anything. Lancelot immediately moves so he is between her and the rest of the field, his eyes moving around before he stops and holds himself very still.

“Stay behind me,” he says, “Goliath.” Goliath moves closer, putting himself against Pym’s shoulder.

She hears the sound of hooves and under Lancelot’s shoulder, she can see a man on horseback coming out of the woods at an almost laughably slow pace.

He’s not dressed in red but a dark brown habit. It’s distinctly familiar in it’s cut though and Pym immediately feels her heart pick up. He stops his horse immediately and Pym pulls the knife off her belt, going to press it into Lancelot’s hand but he shakes his head. The cloaked monk moves his head as he looks around. It’s midday, people are largely keeping indoors but a few are around. Including the two of them. He focuses on Lancelot.

Then reaches behind him, draws his blade and throws it far out of reach. 

He dismounts and immediately drops to his knees and holds his hands up. Or his hand. One is a hand and one is a smooth stump. Lancelot motions for her to stay where she is and walks towards him. He makes no move to put aside his weapons but stays as still as possible. She watches his hand tremble slightly even as he does his best to stand still. Lancelot pushes back his hood and looks down at him with open disgust and frustration.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“I’m the caretaker of several churches,” he says, “to make sure they aren’t defiled.”

“We’ve been here for days,” Lancelot returns evenly.

He looks up at him and flounders for a moment. Lancelot arches one eyebrow in an unmistakable gesture of dissatisfaction at his responses.

“I said several,” he says, “I ride between them. No-one really cares much about them, that’s why they left a one handed man to do the work,” he catches her eye and she quickly looks away. Then he looks back up at Lancelot, “you’re talking more.”

  
“Is anyone with you?”

“You know they’re not,” he says, “there’s nothing of value in these churches anymore.”

Lancelot considers this for a moment and then nods. The man gets to his feet slowly and Lancelot grasps the reins of his horse. He leads them both over to where she’s standing, his hand on the man’s back. But he doesn’t try anything. Pym swallows as she takes in his tonsure and the beads that hang from the folds of his brown robes. He looks closer to Lancelot’s age than she was expecting, with a mop of cropped dark blonde hair and blue grey eyes.

“This is Father Bedivere,” he says shortly.

“Hello,” Bedivere says, almost cheerfully. Like he’s greeted an old friend and is happy for the reunion, “you are—“  
  
“Don’t speak to her,” Lancelot cuts him off.

“Of course,” Bedivere says as though it makes sense. It does but Pym isn’t expecting him to acknowledge it, “my apologies I—“ he catches Lancelot’s displeased look, “damn.”

“It’s alright,” Pym says, finding her voice. She’s not prepared for a Paladin to be anything but terrifying. Let alone almost charming, “are you still a Paladin?”

  
“I was demoted,” he says, “I serve them,” he explains, “hence, no red. But first I am a servant of God Almighty—“

“That’s enough,” Lancelot cuts in, “can you remove the bridal and saddle?” He asks, his tone softening slightly. Pym nods and quickly does it before gathering up the blanket. All the while Lancelot keeps his eyes on the woods and his hand pinning Bedivere’s arms behind his back, “walk,” he orders Bedivere.

As they approach the church, the door opens. The Raider looks at them and then ducks inside. A moment later Guinevere comes out, carrying her spear. She does not look pleased at the sight of them and Pym can’t really blame her.

“This is Father Bedivere,” he says, “he was a Paladin,” Guinevere’s fingers tighten, “now he minds the churches.”

“How do we know others aren’t with him?” She questions.

“The Paladins don’t care about these churches anymore,” Lancelot says, “when’s the last time they were here?”

“They didn’t arrive the last time they were supposed to be here,” he explains, “it was time for them to be here a few months ago. I received word they were going to send you.”

“Have you heard from them since?”

“No,” he says, “I assumed they had more pressing work.”

He’s not wrong about that assumption. It’s a strange thing to think that Lancelot could have been the one riding here on Goliath, still a man of the Cloth. Still carrying out Father Carden’s orders. Now he’s standing there looking more Fey than she’s ever seen him. However unnerving she thinks it is, it seems far more unsettling to the new priest.

“So you know nothing about the Paladins in the past few months?” Guinevere asks. He shakes his head, “are you surprised to see him?”

“Very,” he says. Guinevere steps forward and she sees the subtle way Father Bedivere shifts his weight. The charm is, at least in part, a calculation. Lancelot seems to know it too, his grip tightens on his wrists, “I’m surprised to see anyone here. It’s—“ he stops and goes several shades paler. The charming mask starts to slip off his face. Pym follows his eyeline, “oh no.”

She supposes it was only a matter of time before they tangled with one of the Paladins who had tangled with another Fey. Kaze comes striding out, takes one look at him and moves forward, dropping her hand to her sword. Bedivere’s jaw clenches and his eyes follow the movement.

  
“Hello, Paladin,” she says, “come to lose the other hand?”

“I did not,” He says.

“We’ll see,” she says.

Guinevere glances from them to Lancelot.

“Can he be useful?”

“I don’t know.”

“Kill him?”

Lancelot hesitates for a moment and then shakes his head. Pym is surprised, though the way they speak to each other it seems there’s a familiarity there. She hesitates calling it a friendship, she’s not sure Lancelot had friends, but Father Bedivere has yet to act hostile or even go for a weapon. He seems to know how to deal with Lancelot in a way she hasn’t seen from the other Paladins they’ve encountered.

“Fine. Kaze, find him some new accommodations,” she says, “away from our other guest. In case that’s who he’s here for.”

Father Bedivere looks at them blankly but Kaze gives a fang bearing grin and takes his hands from Lancelot. She steers him around the back and out of the way. Guinevere doesn’t put her spear down and grasps Pym’s arm, pulling her over.

“You were gone all night,” she says.

“We were just in the field,” Pym replies. Guinevere looks at Lancelot and Pym rolls her eyes, “he didn’t do anything. Aren’t we past this?”

“No,” she says, “not when you spend the night with him.”

“Stop saying that,” Pym scolds, “we’ve slept in the same tent most nights anyway so this conversation is a little late,” she says.

“You think I haven’t checked on you?” Guinevere questions, “you’re my healer.”

Pym isn’t expecting that. She’s outraged and oddly touched by the idea that Guinevere has kept an eye on her in her own brutal way. But she’s also outraged that she would think Lancelot of all people would try anything. Pym only thought that the first night, his reaction to discovering he had been sleeping in the same tent as a woman made it clear he was not the kind of man to break that vow back then. Now she trusts him enough to know he wouldn’t do anything even if he’s broken those vows.

“Well I’m fine,” she says, “I have the knife—“

“Which you don’t know how to use—“

“And Lancelot wouldn’t do that,” she says, a bit louder than she probably should. Lancelot is standing there with the blanket and when she looks over at him his face is starting to turn red, “so I am fine. He is fine and we have both slept through the night. Now can we decide what to do with the priest that just showed up?”

Neither of them move so she starts walking,

“Can you put the spear down? Please?” She says to Guinevere who glares a final time and lowers it, “come on,” she says to Lancelot, “we have things to return.”


	11. Chapter 11

  
“You had a friend?”

“Not like that.”

“Like what then?”

Lancelot doesn’t know how to explain it. Squirrel is very blunt in his emotions, as children usually are. Explaining that believing the same lies and killing the same enemies can bind people without them truly being friends is a difficult thing to explain. It’s been years since he set eyes on Father Bedivere, though the strain on their camaraderie happened earlier. When he was permitted to take his Holy Orders. Lancelot isn’t too proud to admit his jealousy, though he did his penance for the sin of feeling it.

“Paladins don’t want to be friends with Fey,” he says, “even useful ones. We were just paired up together more frequently.”

“Like a friend,” Squirrel says, “in your weird way.”

“No,” Lancelot says, “he is still loyal to the Paladins. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of us.”

“But I thought you said that he threw the sword away, that seems like hesitation. Tristain tried to kill you.”

Lancelot can admit that’s a valid point. But it’s also not as simple as he’s making it seem. He relaxed his hands when he felt Bedivere’s weight shift and again when Kaze appeared and he went tense. He knows Bedivere felt his grip loosen, but he didn’t try anything. He doesn’t know if the man realized it was a test or not. Still he doesn’t trust his loyalty. Though Gawain left a permanent mark on his ability to blindly trust things one way or another.

“He’s a well trained fighter with questionable loyalties,” Lancelot says, “no matter how he tries to charm you, you need to remember that. Do you understand?”

“Paladins and those loyal to them are not to be trusted,” Squirrel says, “so why did he get kicked out?”

“He was crippled,” he says.

“That doesn’t seem like a very good reason,” Squirrel says.

Lancelot nods. He remembers feeling perplexed by the news. But he had been told that once you were touched by a demon like that, there was no hope for you as a hand of God. You could live a pious, quiet life and pray that God he would see fit to save you. The hypocrisy of it now reeks of something else going on, something that he was willfully blind to. But that doesn’t mean Bedivere can be trusted. And the first priority is making sure Squirrel understands that.

“I could have helped if I was there,” Squirrel says abruptly, “I’m good in a fight, I helped with the bucket.”

It’s a fair point. Lancelot knows he’ll forever regret what he has exposed these young ones to, them and all the other young ones. But Squirrel seems to be the one who continues to find himself in situations far out of his maturity, purely because they seem to be in the same place at the same time. Even though they are bound together in ways he cannot fully explain—and ways that he can—the instinct to protect him is still strong. Stronger than the instinct to trust or push him, which he thinks Squirrel would prefer.

“I know Pym’s the best but I can be useful,” he says, “I’m your Knight.”

“Are there things you feel more comfortable talking about with Bors?” He asks. Squirrel considers for a moment and then shrugs, “sometimes it is easier to tell things to someone closer in age to you,” Squirrel seems to understand but not like it, “but you were very good back there. You reacted well.”

“You’ll always be older than me,” Squirrel says.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but as you grow, we’ll share more with each other. But it’s important that you keep whatever innocent you can, for as long as you are able,” he touches the boy’s shoulder, “even if you don’t understand why right now.”

“It’s so I don’t end up like you,” Squirrel says, though there’s no malice in the words, “I think I’d like to be like you,” he says.

“Not in that way,” Lancelot tells him quickly, “you heard me in the tent.”

Squirrel nods and does his best not to look stricken at the memory. Lancelot is sorry it’s in his head now. Though if it helps Squirrel understand why he and Pym have tried so hard to keep whatever shred of innocence he has, perhaps it is not the worst thing. He would rather him have the screams of someone else than his own.

“Did you remember everything?”

“No,” Lancelot says, “I remembered some things.”

“That you’ll tell me when I’m older,” Squirrel sighs.

“I remembered I fought back,” Lancelot says, “I tried to escape, much as you did. When I was about your age. But I wasn’t successful.”

Squirrel looks up at him and his face finally cracks into a grin. It shouldn’t make Lancelot feel better, but he finds it does. He is the adult but Squirrel being proud of perhaps the only brave thing that he did in his former life means more than he anticipated it would.

“I knew you tried to escape,” he says, “I knew it. That’s what he meant when he said I reminded you of someone, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Lancelot says, “I didn’t get far.”

“That’s okay, you tried. You and Kaze keep telling me it’s okay to try and fail, it means you’re building a strong foundation. Besides, you didn’t have me to help back then. But that’s okay, we escaped together.”

“We did,” he agrees, “I’m glad for it.”

“Me too,” Squirrel says, “can I meet your not friend? Is he nicer than Tristain?”

It reasons that there would be a question there, but Lancelot knows there’s no comparison. He never met the other Ash Folk before she was bearing the consequences of his decisions. He cannot begrudge her wanting to see him dead for that. Even if it’s a fools errand. The Church wouldn’t accept her back if she brought all of their heads with her, not after months. Not unless they could ensure she would use the Fire for them and Lancelot still clings to the hope that she did not tell them either. There is more of a chance for Bedivere to return to his old standing. Which makes his behavior all the more puzzling.

“He wants to kill me less,” Lancelot says, “but he hasn’t paid the same consequences. You can meet him soon, after we have more information.”

That seems to satisfy him.

“Alright.”

“Now I need to speak to Guinevere,” he says, “I’ll find you afterwards.”

“Can’t I come?” He thinks of the spear and that conversation and shakes his head, “why not?”

“This is about womanly things,” he says.

“Oh, because you two didn’t come back last night,” Squirrel says, “I don’t think that’s such a big deal.”

“I don’t either, nor does Pym, Guinevere does,” he says, “we‘ve sworn loyal to her cause so I need to speak to her,” he nudges him, “go talk to Pym.”

Squirrel nods and runs off. Lancelot goes to find Guinevere. He finds her looking over a map. The Raiders were usually so chaotic, it’s strange to see her coming up with plans. But they aren’t fighting in quick bursts and retreating anymore, they’re aiming to take ground. It requires something different. She glances up at him, sighs and puts a stone where she was looking before folding her arms and meeting his gaze.

“Let me guess, you’re here to tell me you would never hurt my healer,” she says. He nods. He’s not expecting her to scoff, “I believe you would never hurt her in the way you’re thinking,” she says.

“I took my vows,” he says.

“Plenty of Paladins took their vows. You can ask the half Paladin children running around how that turned out for them,” she returns evenly, “I believe you when you say you took them and followed them. But you’re not a man of the cloth anymore.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her,” he says.

“That is the problem,” Guinevere snaps, “this isn’t a ‘would’ or ‘would not’ situation,” she tells him, “what did the church do to unmarried women who were rumored to have spent the night with someone?”

Lancelot feels his mouth go dry. He remembers the stocks and the shaming, the dismissal no matter how much pleading was done. Women were temptations, they were the ones who took the apple. He remembers and Guinevere sees the realization break over his face. She nods knowingly and moves forward.

“I want to build a world where those things don’t matter. But right now they do.”

“Not to the Fey—“

“I don’t think either of us can claim to be an expert on Fey culture,” she says, “but Nimue’s absence of a father would say otherwise,” she says, “regardless she isn’t in the Fey world, she’s in this one. Where we both know such things matter if she wants to get married.”

Lancelot is caught off guard, both by the statement itself and his own brief clap of panic. He doesn’t know why the prospect makes him feel ill, even for a moment. It must have something to do with how well the three of them work together. Though logically he knows that eventually there will be others. Squirrel won’t be a boy forever, if Guinevere is right Pym will eventually want to have a different kind of family.

“She might not after the thing on the docks—“

“What thing on the docks?”

Guinevere glances up at him.

“Some boy was hiding her on the docks, said they were destined to be married. That she was to be his good Christian wife or some nonsense,” she shrugs, “It was probably half the reason she was willing to get on my boat in the first place.”

Lancelot finds he has the oddest desire to go back and murder some boy on the docks near a village he burned down.

“Does she want to get married?”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Guinevere snaps. Lancelot nods, “I don’t know,” she says, “we don’t talk about such stupid things. But if she did, you’re ruining her chances by spending the night with her.”

“She asked me to,” he says finally around the knot of something that settles in his stomach, “she’s not thinking of such things.”

“I know,” Guinevere says, “but one of you has to. And she’s thought of enough when it comes to you. You need to step up and think of her future.”

Lancelot knows he at least needs to speak to her. He’s learned that listening to third parties in this situation is only going to get him in trouble with her. But he’s not sure she’s thought about it anymore than he has. Not that she should have to, but that is the world they live in. Guinevere looks back at her map but her eyes are locked in one place. Waiting for his response.

“I’ll speak to her,” he says.

“Just don’t do it,” Guinevere says. Lancelot shakes his head and she makes a noise of disgust, “fine. Go speak to her. But if it continues you are compromising her prospects, unless—“

“Unless?”

“Unless you plan on marrying her yourself,” Guinevere says evenly.

Lancelot stares at her, surprised to even hear such a thing come out of her mouth. Guinevere looks up at him and the surprise on his face must catch even her off guard. For a split second she looks unsure. But she immediately pushes the look aside and meets his gaze directly.

“Why do you look so stunned? You’ve broken all of your Holy Vows. Did you not think about what comes after we win this war?”

“More fighting,” he says.

“You would think that,” she mutters, “we’re not fighting to just take back this land and defeat my father. That’s supposed to be the beginning of something better. Somewhere where we can live in peace. Including you,” he looks at her blankly, “have you given no thought to your life after this?”

The idea of peace or what comes after is not something that Lancelot has given any thought to. Peace is what comes when you’re dead, when you’ve served your purpose and been called to Heaven. Turning his back on those orders was supposed to be his damnation. More than anything else. Not that he had made it far on the road to Salvation, but he can say that he’s turned his back on it.

His scar twinges and he remembers what that Road was originally built on.

Not a miracle, not anything to do with God. Just a useful ability that he had since he was a babe. A lie. If the peace he had believed in his entire life was tied to a lie, did it exist at all? Guinevere looks at him sympathetically, which is a strange look considering how often she seems to want to kill him.

“I don’t know what peace looks like for you,” she says, “but there is a place for you where you don’t have to live by how many you kill,” she looks back at her map, “you should give some thought to what it looks like. Maybe one night when you aren’t making my healer ineligible for a good marriage.”

“I’ll speak to her,” he says.

“She can’t tell you what your happiness looks like,” Guinevere says, “no more than you can do that for her. You have to figure it out on your own.”

Annoyance starts to make his head ache. He’s not sure if it’s the weight of the past few days, the suggestion that he should decide something that affects Pym without speaking to her or the idea that something like their lives after the war wouldn’t come up. Maybe it’s all of it. There was a time in the very distant past when he would have nodded and swept out of the room, but instead he finds his voice.

“Have you spoke to Arthur about what your happiness looks like after this?”

It’s an odd thing to see someone look like they are drowning on dry land. But the wide eyes, the outrage, the choked breath all remind him of someone drowning. Trying to breathe air that isn’t there. Fighting against some invisible weight. Of course Guinevere is a fighter and he just manages to catch the stone she sends at his head.

“Out! And stay away from sleeping with my healer until you’ve sorted yourself out.”

Lancelot drops the stone on the ground and closes the door before she can thrown it at his head again.


	12. Chapter 12

Pym finds Father Bediever praying.

She waits quietly for him to finish. He looks at her and gets to his feet. There’s something unnervingly welcoming about him. Pym wonders if it’s an act or not and decides to treat it as such. She sets down the food she’s brought.

“Are you injured?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “just the usual odd bump one gets riding around.”

Pym nods, understanding that far better than she ever expected to. They serve the prisoners food that can be eaten without anything sharp, trying to minimize the hurt they might inflict. Though Tristain is always restrained, Father Bedivere seems less of a violent threat in the same way. He’s human for one thing. And a lone one handed former Paladin is deemed less dangerous. Pym isn’t sure if that’s a mistake or not.

“It must be hard for you to see your church filled with Fey,”. She says. He looks at her blankly, “aren’t you?”

“No, this village was filled with Fey and people,” he says, “this is how it should be, better than it collecting dust,” he catches her look, “you don’t believe me.”

“Of course not,” she says. He smiles, “I have yet to see a Paladin not want to kill me.”

“The Monk doesn’t,” he points out.

“He did when he was a Paladin,” she returns evenly.

“I would have too, when I wore the Red,” Bedivere says, “I serve them, they don’t count me among their ranks,” she tries very hard not to look at his hand, “Now I serve only God.”

She’s surprised to hear that, though if she looks she can see he still has the trappings of his Faith. Just in a different color. Though if she looks she can see his robes are a rougher fabric and have seen more wear, the beads he carries are more like her old prayer beads than Lancelot’s gemmed ones. She could see him easily in the regalia she’s seen the other Paladins in, but he isn’t.

“Are you wearing that shirt?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “I don’t kill in His name,” he explains, “it’s been years since I practiced any mortification of the flesh,” he sees her puzzled look, “flogging myself,” he explains, “I believe there are better ways to repent,” she nods, “why do you ask?”

“You’re not Fey, but you dying of an infection in this place would be against what we believe,” she says.

“I am grateful for your care,” he replies easily. He hesitates for a moment, “would it be too much to ask to speak to the Monk?”

“Yes,” she says, “but I’ll tell him you want to speak to him,” she says, “I’ll be back for your bowl,” she hesitates at the door and then turns, “do you not know his name?”

Father Bedivere at least has the grace to look embarrassed at the question. There’s a familiarity between them but Pym knows that only goes so far. She’s not surprised to find out they only called him some variation of Monk or Brother. She is surprised to realize she might be the second person he told his name to in a very long time. Father Bedivere shakes his head and Pym nods, slipping out of the room before he can ask her what it is.

She walks off until she comes to another door. There she squares her shoulders and opens the door to Tristain’s cell. Tristain is also praying but there is a growing frustration on her face. It’s a startling contrast to the serene way Father Bedivere prays. Pym sets down the tray as Tristain stands up, her chains rattling.

“You seem frustrated,” Pym says.

“You seem less frozen,” the Fey snaps.

“Thank you,” Pym says.

She’s learned that not letting Tristain’s ego get to her is half the battle. The Fey throws out barns and just hopes they will stick. Somewhere. Pym just pretends they don’t and that seems to rebound them to her. It’s a frustrating, tiresome task. But she has to remind herself that Tristain is in a very different position.

“Can you not hear the Lord?” She asks.

“Don’t patronize me, I’m not him,” she says.

“I was going to say if you couldn’t, there is a priest here,” she says, “he’s not a Paladin or one of your Guards, but he does believe there other ways to repent,” she shrugs, careful to keep her voice light, “it might make your back stop itching.”

Tristian takes the mouthful of food and Pym expects it to get spat back in her face. But she doesn’t. Pym feels momentarily bad for it but she also knows that they are going to have to do something with Tristain eventually. Lancelot’s words about what they tried to do on the beach to the little ones makes her think that the hatred Tristain feels for the Fey is more justified than they would like to admit. Though when she turns her head, there’s no such scar on her neck. Pym would assume she healed it, but from what Tristain has said and her body has shown, she was tortured far less than Lancelot.

“I don’t need it to stop,” she says. Pym nods. She hesitates for a moment, “what would I need to do to see the Priest?”

“Cooperate,” Pym says, “don’t make everything so difficult or try to kill whoever is near your hands,” she finishes and Pym stands up, “then we’ll let you see the Priest.”

“I’m never going to be loyal to your kind,” Tristain snaps, “I will always be loyal to the Church.”

“Maybe you should be loyal to God,” Pym suggests.

“And what would you know of God?” Tristain demands.

“Only what I’ve been taught,” she says, “if you let go of what you’ve been told by someone who hates us, you would see that we aren’t so different. But in the meantime, if you behave and cooperate we’ll let you see the Priest,” Tristain looks away, “at the very least it will give you something to do besides pray, stare at the walls and what movements you can manage in those chains.”

Tristain jerks her head away in something that could be a nod and Pym decides not to push her luck. Instead she walks out of the cell and returns to where Father Bedivere is being kept, sparing a brief pass of annoyance at how her life is suddenly all about members of the Church. When she goes to the other Chamber she’s surprised to see there’s another visitor there. She’s not surprised to see it’s Squirrel. Opening the cell he jumps up. Father Bedivere is slower to rise but he’s tucked into the far corner. It would take an impressive burst of speed for him to get to where Squirrel is.

“I’m sorry, the boy snuck in,” he says.

“I wanted to meet someone who knew—“

“Squirrel.”

He stops at the tone in her voice. Pym doesn’t know why it’s important for him not to say Lancelot’s name. She’s sure that he’ll find it out soon enough, if Squirrel hasn’t said anything already. It’s a name, it seems foolish for it to matter. But it does. If he didn’t have one with the Paladins, she doesn’t know if he wants to have one now. However charming Father Bedivere is, or if he is a good person which she doubts, Lancelot being nameless and that being alright strikes her as wrong.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“The boy told me nothing,” Bedivere says, “I swear. He heard me praying and wanted to know about that. That and someone who knew the Monk.”

Pym looks at Squirrel who nods and has no look like he’s lying. Just the earnest curiosity that gets him into trouble far too often.

“Don’t say his name,” Pym tells him quietly. Squirrel nods.

“He never lets us hear him pray,” he says.

Pym has noticed it as well, though whether it’s his preference to pray alone or he’s respecting the horrors those who believe have brought on them, she isn’t sure. But the more he does it the more curious she becomes. But that is something that seems wrong to ask about or draw attention to. If doing it as privately as possible is a comfort, she doesn’t want to risk that.

“I was explaining,” Bedivere says.

Pym puts her hand on his shoulder and feels the door open. She knows it’s Lancelot before she even turns around. Immediately shes unnerved by the realization before chastising herself for that feeling. They’ve spent more time together than she realized, that’s all. He looks mildly annoyed but resigned to the sight of them there and she feels her chin jerk up. The two may have a history but she has a responsibility. Squirrel just has trouble, but they have every right to be there.

“We can give you a moment.”

“I came to look for you,” Lancelot says, “they told me it was your turn to feed them.”

“Yes,” she says. Lancelot glances at his unbound hands, “I don’t think anyone thought to bind him. But he hasn’t done anything but pray,” he glances at Squirrel, “he snuck in.”

“I don’t have any reason to hurt any of you,” Bedivere says, “even if I could go back to the Paladins, I wouldn’t,” Lancelot turns and looks at him, “you have every right not to believe me—“

“You’re right,” he cuts in.

Pym looks at him and realizes it’s odd how silent he is. It shouldn’t be, when she thinks of him she thinks of a man who doesn’t talk as much as most. Not usually. He’s learned how to be quiet, that much is very clear. It’s clearer why as well, though she had guessed as much even without the details. It’s the stillness, she realizes. More even than the silence. Even though the man is in plain robes and talking with that familiarity, Lancelot holds himself still as though he’s waiting for permission or orders. Merlin’s words chime in her head. More blade than man.

“Lets go,” she says abruptly. Though Lancelot’s gaze doesn’t move, she knows he heard her, “come. If we need to restrain him we will. But hopefully he won’t give us a reason to,” she touches Lancelot’s arm, “come on.”

After a moment whatever part of him is waiting for orders seems to recognize these and he inclines his head and steps aside so they can get to the door, keeping his body between them and Father Bedivere. Pym tries not to feel nauseous at the idea of being the one to give orders and instead focuses on all of them getting to the other side of the door.

The moment the door closes Lancelot looks at Squirrel. Pym feels her breath catch, waiting for the anger to erupt. Her hand is still on his shoulder and she doesn’t move it. But the two of them just stare at each other for a long, silent moment.

“What? I said I wanted to meet him!”

“I said to wait for me,” Lancelot says.

“Well you were busy being told off by Guinevere and she was busy with Tristain. I’m tired of waiting while you two go off and have all the excitement.”

“Squirrel!” She gasps. Lancelot just keeps looking at him as Squirrel locks eyes with him. She doesn’t move her hand but she figures if Lancelot hasn’t snapped, he’s not going to, “that isn’t fair.”

“Life’s not fair, remember?”

“Enough,” Lancelot cuts in, “run around the church a dozen times.” Squirrel raises an eyebrow, “go.”

“That’s not going to take very long,” he mumbles.

“Go,” Lancelot repeats, “take Kaze and Bors with you. Then we can talk.”

“Let me guess, you need to talk to Pym,” he says.

“I am not the one out of control,” Lancelot says, “go. If I have to tell you a third time it’s two dozen.”

Squirrel sighs and storms off. If Lancelot’s anger is frightening, Squirrel’s is sickening. She has to remind herself he has every right to be angry. At the world, at them, that the fact he sees them as people he can express himself around is a good thing. But it’s not a thing she likes. She’s older now, but she won’t pretend to have very good memories of the teenage boys who used to pull at her hair and tease Nimue for her scars. Squirrel and Bors will be teenagers sooner rather than later. She looks at Lancelot.

“We shouldn’t talk here,” she says.

“I sent him to run to calm his mind,” he explains, “it can help to channel his anger.”

“That’s good thinking,” she says, “did you need to talk to me?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. She sees his eyes move to the door.

“You could go talk to him,” she says. He doesn’t say anything, “I could come with you?” He looks at her sharply, “if that would make it better. It seems like you want to talk to him. And he wants to talk to you.”

He doesn’t immediately shoot the idea down. Pym doesn’t know what on earth she can do, except maybe to remind him that he isn’t a sword anymore. She would just as much rather they didn’t go in and talk to him, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued. Lancelot takes a noticeably deeper breath and then nods.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” she says, setting the bowl down and shifting her belt so the knife is hidden by her outer dress, “then we can deal with Squirrel and whatever else you want to talk to me about.”

Father Bedivere looks up in surprise when they both enter. His eyes search behind them but Pym closes the door. It’s clear that it’s just the two of them. He almost relaxes but not quite. Pym doesn’t blame him as Lancelot stiffens slightly. She finds it odd when he’s still dressed in such Fey clothes, she can’t imagine what someone who knew him for a long time would think of it. Neither of them says anything and the silence grows and grows until the tension of it makes her feel like her head is going to explode.

“Why should we believe you?” She asks, “besides your word.”

“I suppose swearing on my Faith wouldn’t be of much help,” he says. She shakes her head. He nods and reaches down to his beads, putting them on the ground and sliding them over. Lancelot picks them up and moves the beads along the cord. The thin light catches it and it shimmers brightly. Like the moon on the water. She’s seen it before. It’s wrapped around her wrist, though the beads conceal it. Moon Silk. Only given to those who have the favor of the Moon Wings, “as I said, even if I could go back, I wouldn’t.”

“You could have stolen this,” she says.

“There’s no knots,” Lancelot tells her, handing her the beads. She looks and realizes he’s not quite right. There’s a knot, but without magic she wouldn’t know that. The joins in the other places are equally impossible. They make the red silk of Lancelot’s look like a clumsy child tied them. He would have had to enslave a Moon Wing to have them do this, “you befriended the Fey.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he starts.

“Tell us,” Lancelot says, “then you’ll get them back.”


	13. Chapter 13

  
What happened after Bedivere left isn’t something Lancelot cared much about.

It’s not something he thought about either.

He was told that he was no longer fit to serve. That it was a pity but they were not to question His Almighty will. It had made sense to him that his injuries no longer made him fit to serve. Now as Lancelot looks back, he can see the cruelty. Not just in them but in his own actions. There are so many cruelties like that, things that would not happen here. He can barely ride away without someone greeting him, even if just to tell him to stay safe and bid him farewell.

“I should start by saying this isn’t my sword hand,” he says, gesturing to his missing hand, “it was cut off in the middle of a battle. I always fought with this hand. I never had much talent with double blades.”

Lancelot gives him a look to get on with it but Father Bedivere either doesn’t see it or just ignores it. Lancelot wants him to focus on what came after. He doesn’t know why he wants him to say as little about their time in the Paladins together as possible. But the idea of Pym hearing details about it is not something he wants to happen. Maybe it just seems wrong that she hears it from someone who isn’t him. They’ve talked about his early life and now, but there is a very large time that has been put aside. It’s not for Bedivere to open that. But Bedivere has no way of knowing that.

“And after you left?” He prods.

“Before I left I was having doubts,” he says, “about what we were doing. We were supposed to be converting people, offering them salvation. Burning them alive without a choice seemed wrong. When the Crown and their coin got involved, it seemed more like we were an army than a ministry.”

Lancelot doesn’t respond. Such questions weren’t permitted, both an army and a ministry functioned on faith. It also fit with his own needs. He resists the urge to trace the mark on his collarbone and feels the itch on his back start up again. He wants to do violence, to himself, to the Fey. It lurks under his skin like the monster Father told him was. Did all swords ache for blood? He pushes the desires aside but they are harder now to ignore. All the good intentions of telling him to listen to what he wants are worth little when those wants are so ugly.

“I only say these things to explain that the loss of my hand was one reason, it wasn’t the only one,” he says, “which should have been obvious, I suppose, when they made me caretaker of several churches and told me to travel the roads alone. I was attacked, left for dead. I deserved it after the things I had done,” he seems to get lost in the memory for a moment, “God saw fit to just make sure I was attacked at dusk and in the right place.”

“The Moon Wings found you,” Pym says.

“Yes,” Bedivere tells her, “they found me. Helped me. I thought they must not have known what I used to be but then they said they did. They said they helped all who were hurt in their lands, it was their way,” his voice softens, “I wasn’t expecting such kindness.”

Lancelot looks away from the gentle smile at the kindness on Bedivere’s lips. Even Pym looks somewhat stricken at his words. Lancelot supposes there’s nothing to do but get them on the same page about at least one thing. Pym knows. And Bedivere is still a Paladin in some way. Neither of those things make it easier.

“I was dispatched to cleanse the Moon Wings,” he says.

“What?” the color drains from his face, “but they’re harmless—“

“The Church felt differently,” Lancelot says.

“The Church or the Crown?” Bedivere demands. Lancelot regards him silently. He’s expecting it when Bedivere gets to his feet in a quick, fluid movement that reminds him why they were paired together so often during training. Pym cringes back but he holds himself still, “how?”

“I burned down their forest while they slept,” he says.

Bedivere’s features twist and he looks away. Lancelot is only beginning to understand being overcome with emotion like that. But someone like Bedivere, a human from a good family, has always had the luxury of such free expression. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Pym’s fingers curl in her skirt. He glances over at her. Her lips are pressed together and she’s looking hard at the floor. It’s a reminder of what he has done. Her eyes dart up and lock with his, but her expression doesn’t change. He was not expecting it to, but he finds the chastising stinging all the same.

“They died quickly,” he says.

“Well thank God for that mercy,” Bedivere says sarcastically, finally turning back to face him, “I left them because I couldn’t stand being around those I had done such harm to. How can you stay around the Fey?”

“I am Fey,” Lancelot reminds him.

Pym’s eyes dart between them but there isn’t any surprise on Bedivere’s face. Lancelot doesn’t begrudge him forgetting. Denying his Fey side and speaking of it only with hatred is how Bedivere has known him. Demon-born was how he was described, even the simple act of saying he was Fey was unheard of. There was no difference in the eyes of God. The truth was asking Gawain why he didn’t tell them was entirely a test for the Fey. There was no risk to him. But Gawain hadn’t known that and he kept his secret. Lancelot wonders if things had played out differently, he may not have seen any loyalty in the Green Knight. He may not have listened.

“I made sure he stayed,” Pym speaks up, “Fey believe all of us are brothers. Though that doesn’t always extend to man-bloods,” she explains, “I wanted to honor our ways and keep them alive,” she explains, “but Lancelot has more than earned his place among us.”

“Right,” Bedivere says with a tight smile, “of course—“

“I’m acting High Summoner of the Sky Folk,” Pym says, laying her wrist with the beads across her lap. There is a tone of authority in her voice that makes Lancelot pause, “if I say he is one of us, you would do well to listen.”

The smile vanishes off Bedivere’s face and he lowers his head. It’s instinctive. Lancelot has to fight the urge to do it as well. There’s a tone soldiers know to follow, he and Bedivere have both had it drilled into them until it is a part of their being. It’s essential for the battlefield. It’s useful elsewhere. How Pym manages to summon it, he doesn’t know. He half thinks there’s magic involved but her scent hasn’t changed. Though he’s been the subject of her authority, hearing her use it on someone else is an entirely different thing. When she glances at the bench, it only takes a moment before Bedivere is back and seated again.

“I’m sorry, I know you were under orders,” he says.

“That doesn’t change what I’ve done,” Lancelot says. Bedivere nods, “I’m sorry for it,” he adds, “they didn’t deserve it,” he shifts his weight, “none of the Fey did.”

“No, they did not,” Bedivere says, “including your people.”

Lancelot remember the beach, remembers his uncle. He remembers the knife. He isn’t sure Bedivere is right about the Ash Folk. He doesn’t have the words for it. A heavy silence hands between them as they sit under the weight of their crimes and the sadness it’s brought. Each breath feels as though it’s a gift they do not deserve, not when so many others don’t have it.

“So since then you’ve just been checking on the churches?” Pym’s voice cuts in. Bedivere looks at her and nods, “why? If you recognize what the Paladins did is wrong, why do you still do this?”

“I still believe in God,” he says, “I’m still a man of Faith. A man of the Cloth,” he explains, “I gave my life to God a long time ago. It’s listening to other men’s interpretations of his Word that was the problem. The word itself is not.”

Pym considers this for a moment and nods. Lancelot is surprised she doesn’t protest more, but at the same time he isn’t. Since he started explaining their beliefs to her, she’s been the first to see the similarities. Like two threads weaving through opposite corners of a tapestry. He shifts forward as she rises and walks over to Bedivere, holding out the beads. He takes them slowly, surprised at the gesture. His eyes flick to where her knife is but he just puts the beads carefully in his lap with a murmur of thanks. The way he holds the beads fills Lancelot with a familiar longing ache, like when they would pray and God would be silent. Though now he supposes it doesn’t matter.

“Have you renounced your vows?” He asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says. Pym moves and he glances over to see the look she’s giving him, “I was also excommunicated.” Bedivere looks confused at the admission and Lancelot supposes that there’s no time like now to explain, “Father Carden is dead, so is Brother Salt. I’ve been excommunicated. The boy you met before is an orphan they were going to test. I killed a dozen Trinity Guard and escaped with him. I’ve killed more since.”

There’s far less horror but no less shock on his face and Lancelot recounts what has happened. That more than anything speaks to where his loyalties have shifted. Lancelot thinks he should be glad but he’s not sure what to feel. If he would feel anything recounting this to someone who knew him as well as any other back when he felt very differently. He tries to push his emotions away as he does.

“I’m sorry you were excommunicated. You tried harder than any of us to please Him,” Lancelot ignores the bitter taste in the back of his throat and the familiar longing to hear Him, “He was never there.”

Lancelot feels the words like a blow. There’s only kindness in Bedivere’s face. Kindness and pity. Whatever he was expecting, it was not that. But the words echo through him. God was not there. The Paladins were not doing His Work. He knew it, but hearing it from someone who has always seemed to hear His Grace as easily as breathing is painful. He can’t say there was true trust or respect or friendship, but there is a reason Bedivere being kicked out of the Paladins didn’t result in his excommunication.

“We should let you get some rest,” Pym says. Lancelot grabs the lifeline and nods, getting to his feet.

“Before you go—“ Bedivere hesitates before resolve shows on his face, “may I know your names?”

Lancelot isn’t expecting the request. He looks at Pym who gives a small shrug.

“I’m Pym,” she says. Bedivere nods. Pym looks at him sympathetically, opening her mouth to interrupt but Lancelot turns first.

“Lancelot,” he says, “my name is Lancelot.”

Bedivere nods and Pym touches his arm, together they leave the cell. He steps away from her and presses his hand against the wall. He wants to strike it until his knuckles are bloody. Until some measure of broken skin clears his head. But he doesn’t. He forces himself not to. He presses into the wall and pushes himself away before he does something foolish. Pym watches him quietly.

“I think you should join Squirrel,” she says finally.

“It would take more than that,” he admits.

“What would it take?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head.

He knows. But that’s not something he can do. He remembers aching for the day when he could perform his own mortifications. It’s been years since he suffered the feeling for any long duration of time. After months it feels like he shouldn’t have to keep feeling it. But logically he knows that his past will always be connected to it.

“I have an idea,” Pym says, “but I’m going to have to touch your back. May I?” He considers for a moment and then nods. Pym looks at him for another moment and then let’s out a breath, “you’re going to have to sit down,” she says.

He kneels.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting but it’s Pym, so he does it. And though he aches for the flog, the past few days have shown him how twisted that is. God was never there asking for his flesh. It was always Father. And before that it was his own people who asked for it. Aching for it no longer feels like strength, but he does it all the same. He feels her touch his shoulder and it’s startling.

“Are you—“

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Alright,” she tells him and lays her hand on his shoulder fully.

Near the scar.

He tries not to shy away and focuses instead on holding himself still. That, at least, is familiar. It’s always the first lash that is the hardest not to flinch from, until he finds the rhythm. He forces himself to hold still and expel the breath from his lungs.

When he does, Pym digs her thumbs into his shoulder.

He’s surprised and nearly moves but she sets her feet and pushes harder into his muscle. It’s not a pleasant feeling, the itch still scurries under his skin. But it’s—something. It’s a language he understands. Better than any words at least. It gives him something to focus on.

“Put your hands on your legs,” she says. He looks back over his shoulder and does it, bracing his back. She lines her thumbs to some point at the base of his neck and digs them in. Something hot and almost painful races across his shoulders and it’s like having an itch scratched. At the very least it feels like he can breathe, even if only just, “better?”

He nods.

She continues to find spots that make his muscles burn and then loosen. His world seems to narrow to her fingers and the burn they stoke from his muscles. The sensation eclipses even her scent. He loses track of time in the haze until she flattens her hand against the bare skin of his neck. He realizes his breathing is unsteady and his eyes are shut. He remedies both quickly, but her hand pulls away all the same.

“Your back is spasming,” she says, “I don’t want to create more knots. Did that help?” He nods, not fully trusting his voice, “good.”

“Thank you,” he says, slowly getting to his feet. His head feels clearer than he can remember it feeling in some time. Thank you seems like an insufficient response, “how—“

“Most of it was in the book,” she says.

He glances around, half expecting to see Guinevere or one of them there, but it’s just them in the hallway. Everyone else is locked behind doors the phone are not meant to see out of. Despite the lingering haze, Lancelot forces himself back into the present. All of the things crashing around cannot take precedence over the things that are truly about her. Though if he thinks about it, most of the things that affect him are affecting her. Her presence there just confirms it. Their lives are more tangled together than he’s previously considered. It seems like a lifetime ago they were talking about the what if’s when they rejoined the Fey and how her and Squirrel’s friendship with him would be inferred.

“Thank you,” he repeats and she smiles, “what you heard in there—“

“It’s nothing you haven’t told me or I didn’t already know,” she says, “are you alright with what he said?”

“No,” he admits and she nods, “but that’s something for later. We need to talk about what Guinevere and I spoke about,” he says. She glances over his shoulder and he turns but it’s blissfully empty. That or it’s Gawain who has the grace to remain hidden.

“We should go elsewhere then,” she says, “the room?”

He thinks of Guinevere’s words and shakes his head.

“Outside,” he says.

She gives him a curious look but nods. Trustingly, she follows him into the sun. They watch as Squirrel jogs past, followed by Bors. Lancelot looks up to see Kaze supervising. She shoots him an unimpressed look but waves off his mouthed apology. Pym looks at him curiously.

“So what did you two talk about?” She asks.

“Guinevere says I’m ruining your marriage prospects,” he says, “if we sleep next to each other, people will think that I’ve taken your virginity and no-one will want to marry you. She suggested we sleep apart.”

Pym looks at him for a long moment and then doubles over laughing. Lancelot isn’t fooled, there’s an edge to the laughter that he dislikes. It’s a brittle thing that begs more questions than it answers.

“Sorry,” she says, “you know, never hearing about me ruining my marriage prospects is something I was quite looking forward to.”

“Are you not—“

“Would it matter?” She shoots back. He shakes his head. She looks at him for a hard moment and then shrugs, “I am,” she adds quickly, “but it shouldn’t matter. And my prospects don’t. I have a disgraced family and no dowery, if I’ve been bedded is practically irrelevant.”

The question of how to make them matter dies on his lips. Pym doesn’t talk about her family and considering his role in everything, asking about them seems callous at best. Whatever he’s inferred from what she’s said or how she’s acted or her general appearance, he’s not expecting her to describe them that way. She seems to have belatedly realized she’s said it and sighs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He offers.

“No,” she says and then presses her hand to her forehead, “but I suppose we should. I haven’t because—“ she waves her hand.

“Because of what I did,” he says.

She nods.

“We don’t have to,” he repeats but keeps the force out of his tone, trying to make it as much a question as he knows how to. She shakes her head.

“I know, but I think we should,” she says, “I think I need to.”

He nods and sits.

After a moment she joins him.


	14. Chapter 14

  
Pym barely knows where to start.

She’s annoyed at Guinevere for broaching the topic with Lancelot instead of her, but she also recognizes that Lancelot went to her and Guinevere did what she always does. Addressed the problem as directly as possible. It’s a fair assumption to make, she knows she should be grateful to have friends who care about her like that. But some horrible part of her is annoyed that they don’t know she doesn’t care about such things. Even if she hasn’t told them.

“I’m sorry,” she says to Lancelot, “I don’t even know where to start.”

He nods and waits patiently. Finally her own indecisiveness gets the better of her and she gives up, figuring any place she chooses will be better than not starting at all. She pushes her hair behind her ears.

“I pretended to be a healer,” she says, “Dof said that Fey were good healers and so I told Guinevere that I was the best healer in three villages. I knew I wasn’t, I hadn’t healed anything in my life. But before the High Summoner did most of the healings we had a healer in the village. I was related to him,” she fights the urge to stumble over her words, “for a while we all thought he was Nimue’s father.”

Surprise shows on his features but it’s not funny. None of this is funny. It’s picking at a scab she hoped had been scarred over with everything else that went on. She hates doing. She hates doing it in a fine dress too. With the beads around her forearm. It feels wrong, like she’s dressing up as something she could have been if things had been different. But it’s not her. And she’s spent her time refusing to indulge in such dreams because what ifs are luxuries that don’t exist in her world. Or didn’t.

“Nimue and I were raised to be kin,” she says, “at first. But when her father fled without telling anyone why, he left the village without a healer. And he left the High Summoner,” she bites her lip, “no-one thought well of him. No-one really liked my family either but they didn’t have to when we were useful.”

“You were outcasts,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies, “we lost everything. I was too young to remember much of how things were before. And I was far more worried about Nimue having lost her father. I didn’t understand what it meant for us,” she explains, “not that such things really mattered. We scraped by,” she looks back at him, “I’m sorry, this feels ridiculous to talk about considering everything that’s happened.”

Familial embarrassment doesn’t compare to what he’s been through. No-one physically harmed her or convinced her she was a monster destined to burn in hell. People knew her name. The worst they could say was that she had poor judgement, like most of her family seemed to. The worst that happened was a few cold nights and a few winters with less food than was probably healthy in the beginning.

But Lancelot doesn’t voice that it is. He keeps looking at her intently, listening to her. Pym almost wishes he would tell her to stop being so foolish. But she knows that’s also her looking for a reason not to tell him.

“My parents tried to get together whatever they could for a dowery. They hoped between that and the memory of what we used to be, they could arrange a good marriage for me. But no-one was interested in potentially angering the High Summoner or the Hidden.”

“Would she have done that?” He asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, “but the Sky Folk wouldn’t risk it. Not for so little standing and what my dowery was. Besides I was considered odd for being friends with Nimue. But we had been told we were kin, it didn’t make sense to either of us to stop being friends,” she shrugs, “I can see how it would make sense for me to marry one of the Sky Folk but they remember everything so none of them would want to. If my virginity matters then the rest of it does too, I suppose.”

He’s silent for a long moment but he doesn’t act angrily or do anything she’s bracing for him to do.

“What about the boy on the docks?”

“Aaron?” He nods, “Aaron was a fishmonger I traded with sometimes. He always smelled like fish guts. But after I escaped I figured the smell would keep the Paladins away and I knew he had traps bigger than me so I could hide there,” she thinks about him, “when his mother tried to kick me out he said God had decided we should be wed and I was like her own daughter. He saved my life,” she sighs, “but I didn’t think anything had brought us together except my ability to undo knots and the fact that I was closest to the tent. I didn’t want to be his wife,” she toys with her fingers, “I didn’t want to be anyone’s wife, really. I wanted to be more than just an arranged marriage. Which—“ she sighs, “isn’t something someone in my position should do.”

“You wanted more for yourself,” he says.

Heat floods her face and she nods. It’s a shameful thing, it’s something that she couldn’t admit to anyone. She shoved it into some dark place and told herself she wanted a quiet village life with a husband and little ones over and over again. Until she almost believed it. Though now that no-one is reminding her to brush her hair for the market so a merchant might see it in the sun and want to marry her, she can see how it was never truly what she wanted. She had always braided her hair anyway and told herself it was practical. Or that she would take it down when they got there. Yet the braid always stayed up until she was back home.

“I thought that was how the Fey worked,” Lancelot says, “not like the world of men.”

“It is and it isn’t,” she says, “it is if your family isn’t poor or disgraced. It’s not if a good marriage is the only way they can one day get comfortably through the winter.”

“That sounds hard,” he says.

Pym raises her eyebrows.

“Your people tried to cut your throat,” she points out, “my family trying to make sure I had a good marriage—doesn’t really seem to compare.”

Lancelot considers this for a moment and then shrugs. Pym almost wishes that he would tell her she’s right. She hates the feeling bubbling in her chest as she thinks about it, she’s always hated the feeling. Her family cared about each other, even if she was a trouble maker. Maybe one day their patience would have run out, but it hadn’t. Not yet. Now it never would. Did the dead even care if she married? She doesn’t think so. It feels like the air is stuck in her lungs so she focuses instead on pushing it out, not expecting the tremble that comes with it.

“Your family tried to make you do something you didn’t want to,” he says.

“I don’t know how you can equate those two,” she tells him.

“I know how it feels to be mad at the dead,” he says quietly.

“I’m not—“ she starts and cuts herself off.

It feels like the cork on a bottle has been pulled out. The entire time she’s thought that her sorrow would be the thing that drowned her, the thing she had to keep buried so deep down. But Lancelot names the feeling without even trying. Lancelot of all people, who seems more out of touch with his emotions than anyone. He names it and she suddenly feels it in a wave. If she didn’t know better she would think it had to be an ability of his. It feels like it comes on like Fey Fire.

One minute she’s staring at the ice glowing green and the next it’s shattered.

“Pym?”

She turns away, it’s hard to see his face as her eyes fill. But they’re not the usual tears she sheds. She’s so angry she can barely think straight. She’s angry at her parents, at the village, at her uncle, at everyone who left, who stayed—at Nimue. She’s angry at everyone. And she’s angry at herself for feeling that way about people who have died, largely through no fault of their own.

“I’m sorry, this wasn’t even what we were talking about,” she says, wiping at her face, “I loved all of them. I don’t even know why I’m angry.”

“They left.”

“How are you doing that?” She demands, almost managing to stop the tears through surprise alone, “do the Ash Folk read minds? You barely seem to understand your own emotions. How are you explaining mine?”

It’s a horrible thing to say and she realizes it the moment the words slip out of her mouth. Or the moment she says them. They don’t slip out, she means to say them. But she shouldn’t. Not after everything that he’s just remembered. She’s supposed to be helping people and healing them. Not yelling at them. Especially him.

“It’s not mind reading, I just listened to you,” he says.

“I didn’t tell you I was mad at them. I didn’t know myself.”

“You were mad when I suggested leaving,” he points out, “even when we first met.”

“It’s been months,” she says.

“I listened,” he repeats.

She doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not something she expected. Not from him. Of all of them, she’s the only one who isn’t a great warrior or magic user or both. She’s a half decent healer who just seems to be standing in the right place at the right time. She’s always just called it luck. Her family used to joke that she was the only one who had any of it in their family, that Jonah must have taken all of it away or the Hidden had only been called to curse the adults. She’s very used to people having a lot going on. Though the truth is she’s not used to having more than one friend.

“Thank you for listening,” she says, trying to will herself back under control, “I hope you’re not thinking about leaving and just not saying it, I think that might be worse.”

“I don’t keep things from you,” he points out. She nods, that much is true. His hand hesitates for only a moment before it lays over hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, pulling her hands away to wipe at her face, “this is madness. I’m not trying to weep on you.”

Lancelot seems to consider this for a moment before he slowly shifts his weight closer. Seeming it sense she needs her hands, he puts his arm lightly around her shoulders. Pym realizes he’s moving slowly in case she wants to run. She’s glad because at the moment her skin itself feels too tight. She doesn’t think being held would help the situation.

“I’ve bled and sweat on you. Constantly.”

She isn’t expecting his dry humor and it manages to get some semblance of a laugh out of her.

“That’s not funny,” she scolds.

“And screamed in your ear.”

“You did,” she says, “I can’t imagine what any of them would say if they knew you weren’t petrified of getting cried on,” she shakes her head, “especially by me.”

“Arthur and Squirrel both cried on me.”

“Oh, well, you must be an expert.”

His lips quirk up and it feels alright. It’s not like drowning. It hurts and it’s difficult, but her head remains above the water. If she tries, she can still breathe. Not easily and not without discomfort, but every breath is slightly better than the last. She doesn’t know how any of them would think of the person tied to all of this being the one to hold her. And she finds the thought angering and also aching. Because she realizes that she doesn’t truly care. No more than she cared about their thoughts when it came to Nimue. Maybe she is odd, but she can also see that she’s lucky to have figured that out. Lucky to have the friendships she has. That she didn’t let everything else get in the way of seeing the truth and what really matters.

“Do you care about us sleeping together?” She asks, “aside from it going against Guinevere.”

“I told her I had to speak to you about it,” he says.

The tears come back harder when she realizes he really did listen. Even if she doesn’t have a voice or had no loyalty sworn to her. He meant what he said on the ship and in the field. So much has happened she’s pushed all of that to the back of her head. Not as deep down as she’s pushed other things but it hasn’t been at the forefront of her mind. Lancelot keeps his arm around her shoulder but now when his fingers tighten on her slightly, it doesn’t feel so bad. Even as the lump in her throat tightens. But it’s not drowning.

It’s just sobs.

She can still breathe.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she gets out before burying her face in her hands and giving into the emotions.


	15. Chapter 15

“How likely is it that the Church will come for them?” Arthur asks.

“Tristain is excommunicated and Bedivere is worthless to them,” Lancelot says.

“They could be used as a justification,” Arthur reasons, “if they need to paint us in a worse light to the people.”

Lancelot can see the logic in what he says but he feels entirely out of his depth. Opinions have never mattered in his world. There are people who agree and heathens. That is it. He’s always had the might of the Vatican and believed he had the power of God Almighty behind him. He’s never had the kind of disadvantages they are now facing. Guinevere is an exiled princess with no claim to the throne. He is in opposition to everything that the Church stands for. Even Arthur’s Sword pulling is questionable. Nimue was the Chosen One. She has given the Sword to him, that doesn’t mean he is now the bearer of that greatness.

“They don’t need to do that,” he says.

“Of course not,” Arthur says, “we’re hated enough, but painting themselves as they victim could be powerful.”

“They could make them martyrs,” he realizes. Arthur nods. The thought is an unsettling one, “Cumber and Uther are more vulnerable without God on their side. Though Cumber has Guinevere’s focus.”

“He does,” Arthur agrees.

“How do you turn people from God?”

Arthur sighs but he doesn’t say that there is no answer. The solider in Lancelot is intrigued. The Holy Man in him is horrified. Somewhere in those warring sides, he hopes, is the man he truly is. But at the moment they have wasted enough time on his self discovery.

“It’s not a matter of turning them from God, it’s turning them from the the Church,” he says, “we have to get them to believe in Guinevere.”

“That won’t work,” he says, “these people are not comfortable with a women leading them,” he glances over at Guinevere who is speaking to a Raider, turning a knife point into the table as though drilling a hole, “the Church taught them women are not involved in violence. Right or wrong it is what people follow.”

Arthur nods. His eyes drag to Guinevere and she looks up. When their eyes lock, the knife twists with far more force. Arthur holds her gaze for a moment before he looks away. Lancelot notes the exchange quietly. Things have not recovered between them. They seem to be barely civl, outright hostile or filled with awkward, rough gestures of care. Neither of them seems to know what to do with the other.

“You should speak to her,” Lancelot voices.

“We’ve said all we can to each other,” Arthur says.

“Did you do what she wanted?”

Arthur looks at him, considering his words for a moment before he sighs. Lancelot knows that sigh. They all seem to have one for him, though when things are tense it comes up more. It’s only a recent thing that he’s learned he doesn’t need to blow the air out of his lungs or close his jaw in anticipation of a strike. He knows it but it doesn’t stop him from tensing slightly.

“It’s not as simple as that,” Arthur says, “besides it’s not something that’s important right now. We are fighting a war.”

Lancelot thinks about Squirrel’s anger and frustration and Pym’s grief and even Merlin’s pain and isn’t sure he agrees. Guinevere’s words about there being a life after the fighting ring in his ears. Despite knowing that there is a war and that needs to be the priority, he doesn’t think of the time he’s spent in the past few days as a waste. He can’t. He feels clearer headed than he has in a while.

“Bedivere might be useful,” he says. Arthur looks at him curiously, “if he proves loyal.”

“Are you vouching for him?” Arthur asks.

“I think speaking to him would be a good idea,” Lancelot says, “it’s not for me to vouch for him.”

He isn’t an adult Fey in their eyes, which is fair. He’s proven himself in some regards, but his standing is still affected by his past deeds. Maybe not to all of the little ones, but there are a handful of them and of the Fey who distrust him. Raiders as well. Arthur knows it too. Everyone knows it. After what he has done, Lancelot cannot begrudge anyone for distrusting him. And though he realizes that moments where that interferes with what he wants will happen, he still finds himself annoyed by it.

“But you trust him,” Arthur says.

“I don’t think he’s lying when he says his loyalty is elsewhere,” he says. Arthur gives him a curious look, “Kaze didn’t cut off his sword hand. Others have been hurt worse and not sent to such a dangerous life.”

“And you’re sure it has nothing to do with you wanting a kindness from the Paladins?” He asks, “no-one would think strangely of you for wanting that.”

Lancelot’s immediate reaction is to deny it, but he makes himself wait for a moment and consider Arthur’s words. Eventually he shakes his head.

“The Paladins that would mean anything from are dead,” he says.

Arthur gives him an understanding look and Lancelot knows he does. It’s a strange thing, to want something from the dead. To need something from them. He understands Pym’s and Squirrel’s anger a lot better than he wishes he did. Certainly a lot better than he would have admitted to understanding a few months ago. But if anyone here understands what it is to be angry at the dead and the burdens they pushed onto you, it’s Arthur.

“Did anyone else speak to him?” Arthur asks, “you shouldn’t go in there alone.”

“Squirrel snuck in,” he says, “when I spoke to him, Pym was with me.”

“We’ll speak to her before anyone else goes in there,” Arthur tells him, “is Squirrel alright?”

“He’s fine. But he’s angry,” Lancelot says.

“Rightfully so,” Arthur agrees, “it’s a wonder any of you were willing to stay and help build a new world. I’m not sure I would have been so brave.”

“Pym is alright too,” he adds.

“Good,” Arthur says, “I imagined she was if the two of you were in there together.”

Lancelot wishes things were as simple as he’s making them seem. He cannot say if either of them would be so angry if they had never met. Pym seems to have knots and knots of emotions about the life she was in and the one she wanted. And Squirrel is close to the age when all boys seem to be angry. At themselves, at the world, at their fathers—it’s a very long list. But he knows that both of them are feeling as they do now because of what he has done, even if they all acknowledge that it is not that simple. He doesn’t think helping them absolves him. But helping them remains something he wants to do.

“You look troubled,” Arthur comments, “more troubled than usual.”

“As do you,” Lancelot replies.

“Perhaps we have the same kind of trouble.”

Lancelot glances a Guinevere whose eyes dart from Arthur to him. They narrow and Lancelot imagines they are going to need a new table soon.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Of course not,” Arthur replies quickly, meeting Lancelot’s sharp look with a smile that almost makes him long for the days when he was feared, “we’ll talk to Bedivere and see if he can be of use.”

Lancelot nods his thanks. He tells himself that there are many complicated pieces to this. He needs patience. True patience. He’s more used to being patient when he’s ordered to be. By someone that he trusts the same way he trusts God. The scar on his shoulder aches, reminding him where that loyalty came from. Longing for the simplicity of it when he understands the cost feels shameful.

It feels weak.

His stomach twists when he realizes the itch on his back has returned. Which only makes the frustration and weakness feed on itself. It reminds him of the flog and how you had to be mindful of your strikes, lest you get lost in the mortification and actually hurt yourself. It was rare that he had to heal himself from it, but not unheard of. His jaw clenches and he pulls his hands from the table, just to be safe. He has more control but the Fire also comes easier now. As if it’s making up for lost time. He knows they are supposed to be discussing their next plans but he cannot stop himself as he walks out of the room and back outside.

The moment he gets back from the church, it feels as though he can breathe again. He looks back at the building. He’s been in there before with only the most mild of effects, except in the one room. Now it feels as though the entire building is rejecting him. He would hear stories of Holy places rejecting heretics. His skin doesn’t bubble and no blood flows from his eyes, but he feels as though his skin is burning. Turning from his vows would always have consequences, but he has held onto his faith. In whatever way he can. He mentally attempts to pray and nothing occurs. He doesn’t burst into flames as he’s half expecting to.

“What’s wrong?”

His eyes fly open to see Kaze standing there. Lancelot knows he owes her an apology for pushing the little ones on her entirely the past few days, but getting his throat to work seems out of his abilities at the moment. Anyone else might be afraid of him but she’s tangled with worse and walks over.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I cannot be in the Church,” he confesses, the words coming out of him in a single breath.

“Of course you can be,” she says, “you don’t want to be. There’s a difference,” he braces his hands on his knees. She gives him a long, silent look, “you’re not this stupid.”

He looks up at her, still focusing on breathing.

“That building is now rejecting you? Not before? Only after your friend cried about the horrible things you did in the name of it?”

She has a point. He straightens up, feeling the heat start to drain from his face. There’s a logic to her words, though it’s not as simple as she makes it sound. It’s not just Pym. It’s Pym and Squirrel and Arthur—it’s so many people. It’s not rejection, it’s guilt. He’s felt the guilt of what he’s done before, but he’s never felt the guilt while realizing the extent of what was done to him. His entire body is a patchwork of it. How is he to carry the guilt of what he has done and the guilt of what was was done to him? He’s spent a lifetime believing in God’s path, but now he wonders what kind of God would do that to a child. If there is any God at all.

“I cannot be so weak—“

“No, you cannot go back in there,” Kaze cuts in, “if praying doesn’t stop you from putting out the Fire, you risk burning everyone to the ground.”

She turns and his hand streaks out. But Kaze is not a boy, not a child, she’s not even the warrior he struck down. She knows his tricks. His foundation has been rocked in every way that a foundation can be. It’s no surprise that when his hands lock around her wrist he suddenly finds himself bent back over, his arm pinned behind his back. She just holds him there, strong enough to ache but not strong enough to do any damage.

“If you’re not weak, then admit you going back in that place puts them in danger.”

He clenches his jaw.

Kaze waits a moment before realizing his silence is not going to change unless she causes him more pain. Lancelot half hopes that she will. For a moment she does, twisting his arm and the burn of it makes him breathe finally. He cannot see her face but she can hear him breathe. She drops his arm like he is a burning heretic and steps back. There is enough respect between them that she doesn’t look at him with outright disgust but it is a near thing.

“Stay there,” she says and walks away. When she comes back leading Pym, he’s not surprised. Her eyes are still reddened but that doesn’t stop her from walking forward. What does surprise him is Merlin’s presence there. Immediately something in him recoils. But Merlin only gives him a grin that’s more teeth than kindness, “show them what you did.”

“What?” He says.

“What’s the best way to take something bitter?” Kaze asks Pym, her eyes not leaving his.

“One gulp?” Pym says.

“Show them the village,” Kaze says, “you did as much horror there as you did in that building. Then we can see if you can set foot in that church without panicking.”

“Why them?” He asks.

“You opened this box together, you need to empty it together,” she says, “that is what we believe. Try it.”

Lancelot looks at the pair of them. Merlin is not someone he wants there but the druid looks at him with an intensity that begs many questions. Lancelot isn’t foolish enough to think that something isn’t there. And Pym has met every sin with a high head and more honesty than he’s sure he deserves. So he nods.

“I’m going too,” Squirrel says, appearing as if by a dream, “and don’t tell me it isn’t safe.”

“It’s not,” Lancelot says. Squirrel glares and he jerks his head, “let’s go.”


	16. Chapter 16

Pym isn’t sure who needs to be watched closer.

She understands that Squirrel would follow them anyway and this is better, but she doesn’t want him to see this and think of home. She doesn’t want to either. But things happened so quickly there was no time to debate it. Besides the village was, at least initially, built more by men. But as they move into it, it’s less of a comfort. The ash is there still but along with it are the skeletal remains of other structures.

Logically, she knows that the dryness in her eyes is because of her earlier crying.

It still makes her think of home.

She doesn’t remember much about it, not because she’s blocked it out but because it happened so quickly. She took in the chaos, not even sure where to begin and the next she was upside down grabbing madly for Nimue’s arm. The smoke and the blood rushing to her head made everything hard to see. Even if she thinks back to it burning down and searches her memory very hard, the most she can say is she may have seen a flash of green. But she’s not sure if that was him or her mind playing tricks on her.

“It really is incredible to think the kind of destruction you could have wrought if you had used your Fire,” Merlin says.

“Were there any survivors here?” Squirrel asks.

“There were at first,” he says.

Pym looks at him. His voice has taken on the hoarse edge that seems to come out in stressful situations. It doesn’t take much to guess at who was sent to hunt those survivors down. She looks at the remains of a house where a pot still sits on a hearth. It’s an almost painful reminder of the world that existed before their arrival. She thinks of her own home and what must have been on there, the fight that she had with her mother earlier in the morning about not taking too long at the market. Maybe in the ruins of a home back at their village there was a pot with a lot of questions.

At the same time, it’s impossible not to think of the chaos and confusion and the fear and not think of Lancelot as a young boy, terrified of both his rescuers and the family that had tried to kill him to keep their secret.

“I’ve done worse,” Merlin remarks.

“You look far too interested,” Pym says.

“Aren’t you?” The Druid challenges, “have you ever seen what the Paladins could do?”

“I was in a Raid,” she defends, “though I was knocked out for most of it,” she glances around, “but of course we knew. Seeing it doesn’t change things.”

She sees Lancelot relax fractionally at her words. It doesn’t, no more than hearing about the atrocities on his skin changes how she views him. She’s glad for their first few weeks together when she sorted it out in her head and decided that he was someone worth knowing. Complicated as that made things. She’s also seen him kill. She’s not foolish enough anymore to think things are as simple as the other side being inhuman. Everyone in a gold mask who would harm her or Squirrel was, at some point, a person.

“What about you, little one?” Merlin asks.

“My name’s Squirrel,” Squirrel snaps back, “and I’ve seen worse than some old stones.”

“Squirrel,” Lancelot says his name sharply.

Pym turns her head, in case she gives into the urge to smile. Smiling in this place seems wrong. Even if Squirrel standing up to Merlin and the tone in Lancelot’s voice makes her want to smile. She knows that Merlin wouldn’t hurt Squirrel. Not for anything so grand as hurting little ones is wrong, maybe a little because of Squirrel’s friendship with Nimue, but most of all because Squirrel is in that golden city Merlin is determined to build. And he won’t risk it. Merlin looks up from the boy and give her one of those grins that has her rolling her eyes.

“So you cannot go in the church?” She asks Lancelot. He looks away and gives a quick nod, “after what you learned I suppose that makes sense.”

“How so?”

“You’re angry at it.”

He seems surprised at how quickly she arrives at that conclusion. But he doesn’t try to refute it. Pym wishes she didn’t understand that anger quite so well and she knows that her own frustrations are so far removed from his. Deep down, the more she thinks about it the more she sees her rebellions against her parents wishes for what they were. She sees why flinging herself onto the Raider’s ship was not nearly as terrifying as it should have been. Everything on shore scared her in a way she isn’t

certain she has the words for. But no-one tried to split her open with a sword for staying out too long in the market.

“It doesn’t change what I did,” he says.

“You’re right,” she agrees, “but it is more complicated than that,” she looks around, “it’s always been more complicated than that.”

Lancelot frowns and Pym wishes that it did change things. That it made any difference. But knowing what happened to him doesn’t bring back the people who once lived here. It doesn’t fix anything at all. He glances from her to Squirrel whose begun to kick a pebble down the dirt road. Pym almost thinks he doesn’t understand what’s happened here, but she corrects herself. He does. He’s just seen to much to think that anything there can harm him. It can’t. And she finds she doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.

“I wish it did,” he says. She looks at him curiously, “I wish it changed things.”

He keeps his gaze away from hers and all things considered, Pym can understand why. It’s easier not to look sometimes. She’s reminded so strongly of the boat, right after the iron. She wonders how their roles have been reversed in this way. She doesn’t know what kind of comfort she can give. These weren’t her people. And she can’t even say she could be the one to tell him that is alright.

“I don’t think of you differently,” she says, “I doubt anyone else you told would. You’re the same Fey who did this—and the one who all the little ones gave their comfort toys to.”

Lancelot considers her words and presses his lips together.

“I don’t like being so—complicated,” he says.

Pym chuckles.

“I don’t blame you, but here we are,” she glances up at the archway and steps through it. After a moment Lancelot follows her. Everything’s gone except a foundation and a few crumbled walls. And the hearth. Pym feels ice run down her spine and puts the thought away as she peers at the hearth and then into the pot, “just dust,” she reports.

“Do you cook?” Lancelot asks, joining her there.

“Of course,” Pym says, “don’t you?”

“Not very well,” Lancelot admits.

Pym frowns as he looks around the destroyed place. He looks like he belongs there, dressed in his borrowed clothes. Even more than she does since hers are from Guinevere. But there’s something incredibly awkward about how he stands and looks around.

“Have you ever been in a home?” She asks, “not for killing or destruction. Just to live?”

“No,” he says.

“Even as a boy?”

“Father told me he didn’t want to risk me being hurt by those who didn’t understand,” he says, “I think he just needed to make sure my training stuck. I spent time in a monastery but not for any great length of it.”

It makes sense wth everything he’s said but it still hurts to hear.

“Did you want to?” She asks. He locks his eyes with her, “I was just wondering, when you were doing all of this, did you ever wonder? About what kind of life you could have here?”

He shakes his head and she nods, finally managing to avert her eyes. It seems like too direct a question to ask while looking at him. Even for how much stronger their friendship has become.

“Some part of me was afraid of it,” he admits, “the rest of me was angry at it.”

Pym thinks of what he said about the Ash Folk and can’t blame him for feeling that way.

“Do you miss it?” He asks, cutting into her thoughts, “this?”

“Not really,” Pym says, “but I was getting to the age where I was expected to marry. I think I was already telling myself it was no longer my home anymore.”

“Your husband’s home would be your home,” he says.

Pym thinks of the docks and Aaron’s mother and tries not to shiver. They saved her life and she found her way out of there. That place was no worse than the other homes she had seen, except maybe in how it smelled. Still the idea of having to convince someone to marry her and the pressure of it makes her want to be sick.

“That was the idea,” she says. She moves towards an outline in the floor, “have you ever slept on a bed?”

“Rarely.”

“Not those cots, I mean a proper bed,” he shrugs, “it would probably be good for your back.”

“My back is fine.”

He says it so quickly she almost misses the fact that he needs to stress such things. Though if she considers it, a lot has functioned on him being in peak physical condition. Even as he denied his own healing ability. She straightens up.

“Of course it is,” she says. He looks uncomfortable and nods, “but it would still be better if you slept on a real bed. You’ll find out when we sleep on them again.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s a softness to it that makes her think she didn’t speak incorrectly. Squirrel sighs loudly and she looks over at him.

“I’m bored, can we go back now?”

“Not yet,” she says at the same time Lancelot nods. She looks at him in surprise, “do you think—“

“No,” he says, “but nothing here is going to change that.”

She swallows, hearing her own words parroted back to her. But she sees the determination on Lancelot’s face. She knows that Kaze was hoping this would do something, but all it’s done is make them see that Lancelot is the same person they thought he was and that he cannot be in a church right now. She’s not sure any of them are happy with that answer. But at the very least, Lancelot seems to trust that standing in the wreckage hasn’t made any of them hate him. 

“So this didn’t fix anything,” Squirrel says, “I don’t understand why you think you need fixing.”

“Kaze is trying to help me make sure I don’t lose control of my Fire,” he says.

“Why would you do that? You just pray,” Squirrel points out.

“That may not work,” Lancelot says.

“How come?”

“Because the Paladins did some terrible things,” Pym cuts in, “and that’s the only version of the church Lancelot’s known.”

Lancelot looks at her silently for a moment before he nods. Squirrel seems to take this or, at the very least, he seems to know it’s not something he should be pressing. Pym has no idea if Lancelot has figured out what he wants to share with him, but she figures that she can save them some stress. Behind her she feels Merlin’s gaze on them. But she isn’t in the mood to deal with his riddles on top of everything else so she focuses her attention on Squirrel and Lancelot as they make their way back.

“I’m going to see Goliath,” he says.

Merlin is starting to look pale, as though he’s been more affected by the place than any of them. He barely complains when she ushers him into the room and gets him settled. Dusk is already fallen by the time he relaxes, half asleep. There’s a knock on the door.

She opens it to see Squirrel standing there with his bedroll. She grabs hers and follows him out to where Lancelot is sitting. It’s a clear, beautiful night. But Pym’s learned how quickly the weather can change. She strings up the tent with a bit of magic anyway. Lancelot watches them silently as Squirrel undoes his bedroll on his side and Pym’s on the other.

“Alright I’m going to sleep,” he announces and scrambles in.

“Goodnight,” Pym says to Lancelot, following him in.

It’s not long before she hears him enter. But when he does it seems like a calm settles over the inside of the tent. She can hear the horses and the woods, sounds that would have scared her at some point. After a moment, Lancelot settles himself between them. Pym glances over her shoulder, making out the reflection of the moon on his marks and then rolls onto her side. It’s a moment later that she feels Lancelot shift closer, their spines touching. It feels incredibly foolish that it makes her feel better, but at the moment she doesn’t care about feeling foolish. Not she. She feels him relax against her and his breathing start to even out.

Pym focuses on that and only that and lets the world fall away.


	17. Chapter 17

Lancelot knows he isn’t alone.

He’s aware of it but in an unsure way. He’s always considered himself good at adjusting, at adapting. He’s had to be. But the core mission has always been the same. The sudden lack of that is unsettling, or maybe it’s the way the old purpose ended. But he finds it difficult to adjust to his current situation. There is better shelter a few yards away, shelter that he would be in if he wasn’t so weak. But he’s not alone in the tent. He knows it when he opens his eyes to see Squirrel sprawled out, looking far more like a child than life has permitted him to be. He can’t see Pym.

But he can feel her.

That is the biggest adjustment. For as long as he can remember the Paladins have avoided touching him in an obvious way. He understood it, at the time. They were his brothers, he did not want them touching his demonic skin. How often had he wished to peel it off himself? Brother Salt said that if his skin was broken, if he was suffering, then he was being cleansed. Touching him was alright then, it was the Lord’s work. But if he bled all the time, he would be dead. He was always careful with how much he would touch his own flesh. He may have been the only Paladin in his age group that wore all the layers they were told to. He had barely adjusted to the fewer layers, but wearing only the shirt he does now feels very odd. He knows his skin is not demonic. He’s starting to believe it as well.

Which brings his thoughts to the back against his.

It’s a very strange but not unpleasant sensation. She’s sound asleep, as is Squirrel but he’s always been the lighter sleeper of the three. It’s an odd thing to be able to tell she’s asleep without the sound of her breathing or being able to see her. But he can tell from how relaxed she is and the feel of her breathing from where their backs are pressed together. She’s never seemed afraid to touch him, or if she is it’s not enough to stop her from doing it. He at least knows what to do with the feel of someone pressing on his wounds or digging their fingers into his flesh. He doesn’t know what to make of the feeling of someone asleep and pressed up against him.

When he goes to move, the back against his pushes harder into him, as though chasing the warmth of his skin. He doesn’t think it’s cold out, but then again he very rarely does. The countless layers he wore were practical but they were also for discomfort. His body feels fine without them, just more exposed to potential blades. Not that that is the same pressing concern. The closest thing he has in this place to someone coming in to cut his throat is Guinevere. And the times he’s caught her she’s merely jerked her head towards Pym and then glared at him. With what she’s told him about her family being desperate for a good match, he wonders if she’s realized a princess is now determined she not have that obligation. The back against his sighs deeply.

“Is it morning?” Pym asks sleepily.

“Hope not,” Squirrel mumbles and manages to twist himself closer, letting out his own deep sigh and falling back asleep.

Lancelot abruptly finds himself pinned between two bodies. Maybe it is cold out. Or maybe it’s just normal for them to seek out the nearest body to lay against. Either way for as strange as it is, it’s still not unpleasant. He feels alright laying there, sandwiched between them. There’s no urge to create Fire or anything troubling—as long as he doesn’t pay attention to the voice that tells him he should be up training. Or planning how best to win the war. Or both. For a moment, at least, he lets himself be content to just lay there sandwiched between the two of them.

It’s pleasant but he’s still oddly relieved when Pym stretches and sits up, running sleep from her eyes.

“Well thank goodness we put the tent up,” she remarks, “it looks like it’s going to rain again.”

Lancelot realizes she’s right as he carefully sits up as well. Squirrel mumbles a protest before he also gets up, stretching and looking at the tent. His face looks disgusted as he sees the cloudy light in the tent. Lancelot’s come to realize that rain is not how Squirrel prefers the weather. He doesn’t like it either. It fades the scents he uses to track. Rain always makes him feel anxious. It reminds him that time is substantially shorter, that things can fade faster than he’s expecting them to.

He can’t say it’s his favoritePym looks around and immediately shifts away when she sees how close they are, color rising on her cheeks. Lancelot knows that she’s comfortable with physical contact. But what Pym wants and what she thinks she should want have always seemed at odds in her. It’s a struggle he understands very well. As disorienting as it is to have everything ripped away, it does give him a clear divide. Pym has had things ripped away, but she is, in some ways, still very much in the same position. She catches him looking at her and pushes her hair behind her ears before getting up and stepping outside of the tent.

“Are we going to run?” Squirrel asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says.

Pym looks at them quickly. Lancelot can understand her concern, but even if he cannot be inside the church he cannot just put everything on hold. There is so much he cannot do, but he can train Squirrel as promised. He can make sure he has the best chance of taking care of himself. Lancelot has no doubt he will survive the war whenever the battles start, but it won’t be because of his fighting skill. Lancelot will do whatever he must to make sure he survives.

“We’ll see you later,” he says to Pym.

She nods as he touches Squirrel’s shoulder and they fall into step with one another. The past few mornings have been difficult for him, but he does feel badly that he hasn’t prioritized training him. He puts Squirrel through what has become their usual warm up and the series of exercises that have gotten progressively more complicated.

“Are we going to spar?” Squirrel says.

“No,” he tells him, “sit.”

Squirrel looks at him carefully and then obeys, sitting down. Lancelot folds his legs. After a moment Squirrel does the same position.

“Close your eyes,” Lancelot says.

“Will you?”

“Yes,” he says, “think about a place where you feel safe.”

“Do you—“

“Think about it,” Lancelot cuts in.

Squirrel blows out his breath but Lancelot hears it start to steady as he obeys. Lancelot had intended to just close his eyes to appease him, but he finds his mind trying to think of a place. In the past it has always been the same. Kneeling in front of the crucifix. Praying. Now it no longer feels safe to think of such things. He casts his mind about, not getting tied up in the should and could of it. He just tries to think of somewhere safe.

Oddly, he thinks of the ship.

Odder still, he thinks of being chained up. He thinks of that first night. When his entire body was rebelling against his location while his mind knew for the first time they were safe. He was safe. As was Goliath and the other horse, Pym and Squirrel. It was the first night where he knew that they were alright. Even if only temporarily. His stomach still twists at the memory of the rocking, but he remembers the nausea was not as bad after Pym did her pressure point trick. So he holds himself in the feeling as Squirrel does the same. For once Squirrel is silent, matching his breath to Lancelot’s.

There’s a drop on his nose.

Lancelot opens his eyes to the clouded skies. A moment later Squirrel does as well. It’s clearly about to rain. It takes Squirrel a moment to get his legs under him after meditating successfully and coming out of it quickly. Lancelot hooks his hand under his arm and helps him to his feet. Another few drops hit them and Lancelot hears the distant rumble of thunder.

“Go for the church, I’ll get Pym,” he says.

Squirrel nods and jogs off. Lancelot figures Pym is at the tent but when he gets there, she isn’t. He catches her scent and sees her tracks, but neither go to the church. They all head towards the woods. He bites back on his frustration, knowing it’s more worry than anything else. There’s no sign of a struggle, Goliath is grazing nearby. She’s fine, she’s just gone into the woods for some odd reason. Lancelot hesitates only a moment before he reasons that as long as he’s careful about what he touches, he should be alright. He cannot just refuse to do things because he’s uncomfortable.

The rain starts to fall harder and though her trail is laughably fresh, he picks up his pace. The dirt is turning to mud and begins to squelch between his toes. Panic laces through him as he belatedly realizes he’s never been in the woods barefoot. There’s no barrier between the soles of his feet and whatever root systems may be lurking in the dirt. But he doesn’t think about going back. He can smell her scent trail. She’s moving but not terribly fast. Almost as though she’s looking for something.

He finally catches her around a tree, her hands buried in the dirt. She doesn’t hear him coming. The moment she realizes she’s not alone, she jumps up sending dirt flying and her hand tries to fumble the knife into a more offensive position. It actually takes a moment for her to calm down and he wonders if he truly looks that different. He supposes it’s a more starting change on him than someone whose spent most of their life out in the woods barefoot.

Still he’s never seen her like this either.

She looks comfortable being out in the woods, now that they aren’t being chased. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but he thinks it’s her hair more than anything else. She’s undone her braid and he’s surprised by how much of it there is, even though she’s always had it long. But with the weight of the water it seems even longer. It’s turned from it’s usual bright red to something darker but it still stands out against the purple dress.

“You scared me,” she says, lowering the knife.

“You shouldn’t be out her alone,” he tells her, “you didn’t hear me coming up.”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, “I just wanted to collect some things that the book said were good to find during a rainstorm.”

He nods.

She doesn’t move.

“Keep collecting them,” he says, “I’ll keep watch.”

She hesitates for a moment so he turns and starts scanning the forest. He still catches her roll he eyes before she turns back to the task. He knows that some things are better done without a watchful eye, but she can do nothing if she is dead or kidnapped. He can give her some kind of privacy but he cannot just let her go running through the woods unarmed and unprotected. He hears her straighten up and turns around.

“There’s more—“

“That’s fine,” he says, “Squirrel is back with the others.”

She looks at him carefully.

“Don’t take this the wrong way but are you alright to be here? With so much—“ she motions around, “I can go back with you and return with Kaze or someone.”

He shakes his head.

“I can control it,” he says, “as long as I’m mindful I will be fine. Squirrel and I were meditating,” she gives him a curious look, “I’m fine,” he says. He thinks about sitting back by the fire the last time she was kidnapped, “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to be the one to accompany you.”

She looks at him sympathetically and nods. He watches her look around and then start to make her way deeper into the woods. He follows her as the foliage becomes a bit thicker and the rain a bit less hard. He waits as she finds more things she needs. She’s quicker than he expects her to be. Even without the heightened senses she seems to have a knack for finding what she needs. He keeps his senses wide for any incoming threats, even as they make their way deeper into the woods. Pym seems to know that even with their relative safety, quickness and quietness are important.

The rain provides a good cover.

But not good enough.

He hears them off his left side. They’re in dense enough cover that there’s a chance they haven’t been spotted. Pym is crouched by the tree. He shifts his weight and lowers himself. She turns to look at him and seems to recognize the look on his face. Smartly, she moves her hand back and passes him the blade, turning the knife to have the least surface area. He jerks his head towards the sound and then the tree and she straightens up, stepping carefully to the side.

“Now, if you take us to your friends, we can promise you a quick death,” one of them says, recognizing he is Fey but not recognizing the rest of him, “if you can take us to the one who worked with us, we’ll pray for your soul.”

Lancelot’s never had time for the platitudes or elaborate speeches that the Paladins are known for. He’s always found them privately ridiculous, even at his most faithful. Though he supposes if he had ever hear or felt God’s Grace in any real way, he might feel differently. He stays still until they are within striking range. There’s always been a weakness in their need for validation. As if silence itself was heresy.

“Did you hear me, Fey? Or are your Folk the deaf sort?”

It’s two quick slashes to kill the first, one to cripple the second and he slams him up against the tree. It’s his fingers in his neck that keep him from dying, but it’s a temporary thing and they both know it. Fear fills the Paladins face. Savagely Lancelot is glad for it. Relishes it even. Until he sees Pym peer out from around the tree.

“How many?”

“I won’t tell you,” he rasps.

“Then I’ll follow your tracks and tell them you did,” he says, “will they pray for you then? How many?”

The Paladin smiles with red teeth and pulls his neck away, ending his life. Lancelot drops him to the earth and wipes his hands on his robe. Pym looks down at the dead bodies and then back to him, though the horror that may have been there months ago is now just anger and sadness.

“It’s just them,” Lancelot says.

“What?”

“For now. They’re a scouting party,” he says, “I can follow their trail.”

“It’s raining though,” Pym says.

“I need to follow it now. You should—“

“Don’t say I should go back,” Pym cuts him off, “I’m coming with you.”

He wants to protest but she looks at him in a way that reminds him of Squirrel. To think he thought he was going to get out of this without making Fire. But if the rest of the Paladins are in the woods under the thick canopy, he knows at least one person will see a signal from the forest. Several, if they’re keeping their watch schedule. Fortunately it’s a small amount of Fire, barely even enough to require him to pray to put it out. He aims it upwards and lets it burst against the raindrops and vanish just as quickly. Bending down, he disarms one of the Paladins. After a moment, he reaches up and closes his eyes. He does the same with the other. He hands the knife back to Pym.

“Stay close,” he orders and leads them after the Paladin’s trail.

.


	18. Chapter 18

Pym cannot believe that they didn’t recognize him.

She supposes that he looks very different from when they would have last seen him, but so different that they wouldn’t recognize him is extreme. But she’s never given the Paladins much credit where their eyes are concerned. She thinks for a moment that neither of them have any business doing this. They are surrounded by too much living green and Lancelot is barefoot. She—well she doesn’t have any business tracking Paladins like this. But that doesn’t stop her from declaring she’s going with him. It would be smarter to run for the church and get help, but the idea of leaving him alone is one she rejects completely.

Without the covering of his hood, she can see him working as he follows the trail. The Paladins don’t have Fey with them, but he finds the ways the ground has changed and the fibers of red caught in different plants. He uses the flat sword to move foliage aside. He’s not tense like she sees him but rather completely relaxed. More relaxed than she’s witnessed when he’s awake. This is his element, she thinks. Where he’s most comfortable. She’s careful to follow in his footsteps to not leave another set of prints behind as they follow the trail back to the Paladin’s camp. She hears it before she sees it.

“Wait,” she says, “those bushes are too low. I’ll look.”

“No,” he says, “too many thorns,” he glances around, “can you climb?”

“Yes,” she says, “can you—“

He nods and bends down, cupping his hands. It feels odd to do without a horse but she puts her hand against his shoulder and her foot in his hands. He boosts her up and she grabs the first branch, pulling herself up. Lancelot looks up at her and she listens for the sound of any Paladins. She has no idea if their route on patrol would take them around this area. After a moment she mentally apologizes to Guinevere, pulls her knife out and cuts a long strip from the bottom of her dress. She slices it in half and drops them down to him.

“Wrap your hands and come on,” she says, “can you control your feet?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

She rips another strip from the dress and hands that down as well. Lancelot wraps both and she kicks herself for not thinking of it earlier, though their trek probably would have ruined the fabric. She is about to ask if he needs help when he wraps his hands around the branch and pulls himself up. She hasn’t forgotten how tall he is, but it just hasn’t been the clearest thing on her mind. He can probably climb faster than her but he follows in her route as she picks out the safest branches. Midway up he touches her ankle and nods downwards. She looks to see another pair of Paladins walk by, mumbling about something and missing the tracks they left.

Higher up on the tree, she sees the branches start to thin and figures the one she’s on is good enough. She eases her way out on it, taking care not to break the cover of the branches too badly. Peering through them she feels her mouth go dry at the sight of how many tents there are. She can see figures milling about, including Paladins and Trinity Guards. She thinks of the trap the Trinity Guards had and suddenly the tree feels far less safe, even if she knows this one is untouched. She comes back to where Lancelot is crouched closer to the trunk. He looks at her curiously.

“There’s a lot of them,” she says quietly.

“Switch with me,” he says and she does. He makes his way out and looks through. If the sight of so many frightens him, it doesn’t show on his face. He comes back and crouches on the branch. She gives him a look and he seems to remember that he isn’t alone, “they’ve set a base up. They don’t know where we are and in a group they won’t move quickly.”

“We should head back,” she says.

“Not yet,” he tells her, “they’ll change the perimeter guards soon, we can get a better idea of their numbers.”

She nods and realizes they may be in the tree for a while.. The branch Lancelot is crouched on is thick and she hesitates only a moment before she pulls herself up and sits alongside the tree trunk. Them being caught is a great threat but so is Lancelot blowing the tree up. She draws her legs up and makes sure her dress isn’t hanging over the sides. Lancelot catches what she’s doing and moves closer, drawing his own legs up and making sure he’s not visible from the ground or through the leaves. After a moment and several glances he pulls the tie out of his hair and hands it to her.

“Your hair is bright,” he says.

“Oh, right,” she realizes, feeling heat creep up her cheeks, “sorry about that—“

“You don’t need to apologize,” he cuts in.

She nods and quickly braids it, winding the braid around itself and securing it. She considers cutting another strip of fabric but doesn’t want to risk it. Pulling it back should be enough. When it’s secured, she realizes it was helping somewhat with the cold, or at least that it was more bearable without her neck exposed. She shoves the discomfort away, at the moment it’s irrelevant. Lancelot’s just as soaked and his shirt is thinner, but he looks as comfortable as if he was sitting next to a fire.

“When do they change guards?” She asks.

“The Paladins will probably wait until it stops raining,” he says. She raises her eyebrows and he gives a ghost of a smile, “no need for anyone else to get wet.”

“What if it rained all night?” She asks. He shrugs, “it’s a miracle they have any watch at all with you gone,” she remarks. He looks at her quickly, “something tells me you didn’t care about the rain when you were on watch.”

“I preferred my own company,” he says.

“That’s funny, I’ve only seen them come by in pairs,” she points out.

He looks back at the camp which tells her pretty much everything he doesn’t want to say. Pym doesn’t blame him. She can see him easily slotting back into his old ways of working. But they aren’t working, they’re sitting up in a tree waiting for the rain to stop.

“I saw you close their eyes,” she says.

“What of it?”

“Did you know them?” He glances back at her and shakes his head “that was kind of you,” he glances away, “I’m just saying it was a nice thing to do,” she says, “I don’t know how you can balance all of it. Being kind and—“

“Killing?” He finishes.

She shrugs and then thinks better of it and nods.

“It’s not the kind of thing you balance,” he says.

“But you’re doing it right now,” she points out. He gives her a confused look, “that camp is surrounded by trees. It must be sitting on a lot of roots.”

He stiffens in a way she hasn’t seen and though his head doesn’t move, his eyes go towards the camp and then back at her. A look of self loathing flickers across his face, one that he does his best to hide in nothing but the wet strands of his hair. When he speaks his voice takes on that tone she’s beginning to understand is one he’s learned to use out of necessity.

“You’re right,” he says, “I could kill them all,” he locks eyes with her, “if I do that I could stop anyone else on our side from dying. Cumber is most likely there. It would only leave Uther and without support he would be easy to kill.”

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold air runs down her spine as he speaks so plainly about it. He’s waiting, she realizes. He’s looking at her and he’s waiting. Pym can’t pretend she hasn’t been envious of the wonders that he can do, that Nimue or Merlin or Squirrel can do. Being able to fight like Guinevere is impossible but it’s more of a possibility than her ability to make Fey Fire. Except from the way he’s looking at her, she realizes she could. He just sits there and offers her the chance to get revenge and prevent more death in one go. If she can convince him—except she realizes that’s not quite it. She doesn’t need to convince him.

“If I said that was what I wanted, would you do it?” He gives a jerk of his head that makes her feel as though she’s lost her grip and is falling from the tree, “why? Why would you do that if I asked you to?”

“I trust you,” he says simply.

She tears her eyes away as she thinks of the marks that line his back. Of his anger towards God and the people that he has trusted. She won’t lump herself in with those monsters. She’s glad her trust is reciprocated. But as she sits there the memories of their time together play back and she thinks of demanding explanations and yelling at him. Mostly she thinks of pulling him onto the boat. It’s not the same but the similarity of being the one to give an order to someone who has no idea how to refuse it makes her skin crawl.

“Well I don’t want you to do that,” she says, pulling her knees closer to her chest, “I’m not interested in trading everyone’s life to get all of their blood on your hands.”  
  
“I’ve had more blood than that,” he reminds her, “and there wouldn’t be any blood.”

“Lancelot!” She hisses his name at the attempt at a joke, “do you want to do that?”

“It would make sense,” he says.

“That wasn’t my question.”

He moves forward and glances out from the branches. Pym can hear the rain falling down but doesn’t have it in her to move at the moment. She also understands Lancelot’s need for space. How the question, posed differently, could seem like a test.

“It doesn’t mean you’re disloyal to Guinevere if you don’t want to do that,” she adds.

His posture shifts slightly as he eases back to where they were earlier, almost mimicking her position. Pym tells herself it’s a practical way to sit. Not that he’s mimicking her in some warped show of loyalty because that kind of subtle action has been carved into his skin and twisted into his mind.

“I don’t know,” he says. She frowns and her confusion must show because he continues, “I don’t know if I want to kill them,” he elaborates, as though her pointing out it doesn’t make him a traitor allows him to voice the confusion.

“It’s complicated,” she says.

“It’s not,” he retorts, “I’ve killed more than is in that field. Far more,” he says and she tries not to think of the size of the group or how she knew that, “killing them would keep everyone safe. It’s the logical thing to do.”

“Life’s more complicated than just logic,” she says.

“Not always.”

“Not always, but right now,” she counters, “and if we lose people, their blood isn’t automatically on your hands because you chose not to murder everyone over there.”

He looks away and Pym knows he doesn’t believe her.

“Those things wouldn’t be interconnected if you didn’t want—“

“Want isn’t important,” he says.

“Of course what you want is important,” she shoots back, “how could you think it’s not?” He says nothing, “Lancelot—“ she sees him tense his shoulders.

“Acting on what I want has consequences,” he says. Maybe her mind is foolish or waterlogged or just trying to keep her safe but after a moment of frustration, he continues, “it hurts,” he says simply.

Never has she heard him say something so plainly about pain and when his head dips, it’s towards the scar on his collarbone. Whatever protective innocence her mind has cocooned her in, she rips through. Of course someone who was split open for trying to escape would have a twisted view of what desire got you. As if the trauma of his family trying to cut his throat for their secrets wasn’t bad enough. He’s scarred like that because he chose to run. The starbursts are from the choice to protect Squirrel, the iron burns from the choice to follow her. The consequence for ‘want’ is written on his skin. And if she knows nothing else, she knows that Lancelot understands the language of bodies and skin.

“It’s hard, figuring out what you want,” she says, “especially when you’re punished for acting on it,” she dips her head, “I was just ostracized, it was nothing like—“ he gives her a look. One she recognizes from her disparaging remarks. He’s never treated her struggles with anything but respect, though when she voices them she can’t help but feel foolish in comparison, “it’s not easy to figure out what you want when you’re punished for acting on it,” she says.

“Everyone says I should,” he says.

“Whose everyone?” She asks, an odd ache coming over her.

“Arthur, Guinevere, Gawain,” he rattles it off.

“Did you explain everything?” She asks.

“Only to you,” he says.

She doesn’t know why that makes the odd ache go away. She doesn’t want to think about why it feels a little too close to relief. Or why that ache feels a little to close to jealousy.

“Then they don’t understand,” she says. He nods, “we could try something else?” She offers. He looks at her, “do you want me to do the thing to your back again?”

He considers and Pym wonders if she’s overstepped somehow but there’s nothing to do at the moment but wait for the rain to stop. He nods his head after a moment and manages to turn without risking any exposure. She shifts up to her knees and hopes her hands aren’t too cold.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome,” she replies.


	19. Chapter 19

He’s oddly disappointed as the rain lets up.

Not totally, but there is a lingering taste of it. Which he is immediately annoyed at. There are far better ways to spend time with someone than trapped in a tree like this. Especially when her dress has become significantly shorter because he’s incapable of fully controlling a gift he’s spent his life repressing. The rain lessens and then turns into a fine mist. He knows enough about the Paladins to know this is the time when they will change. He inches forward on the branch and carefully peers through a natural gap in the leaves. The group that comes from the woods is much larger than he was anticipating. Largely due to the fact that it’s comprised of Trinity Guards, Paladins, Royal Guards and those loyal to Cumber. No-one holds trust in anyone. The group that comes to replace them is larger still. As they enter the woods, he hears them start but a few go in different directions, complaining more.

They’re sending out more scouting parties.

“We need to make our way back on the trees,” he says.

“What?”

He nods and starts picking his way to the other side of the tree. Some of the branches are close enough to nearly touch. He motions for Pym to stand back and moves forward, crossing the gap as lightly as he can. The branch is unmoving. He turns back to Pym and motions her forward. She moves across as well. Before she can stumble she grabs his arm and he steadies her. When he looks he can see there’s a slightly colorless sheen to her lips.

“Are you cold?” He says.

“I’m fine,” she replies. He gives her a look, “yes,” she says, “aren’t you?”

“No,” he tells her, “I’ll help you across the gaps.”

She looks momentarily frustrated but nods. He leads them around the tree and finds a new gap. This time after he makes it across, he extends his hand to her and helps her across the gap before leading them to the thicker part of the branch. The situation is less than ideal, but he chooses branches that can support both of them without alerting the people below them. He has a general idea of their direction, but he needs to make sure they don’t accidentally lead anyone back. He still has his hand on her wrist. He can feel when she starts to shiver. He glances back and she waves him off, looking determined.

It’s well into dusk when they get anywhere near the vicinity of the camp. He’s pushed them at a hard pace, balancing the care of choosing secure footholds with the urgency of being able to see properly. To her credit, Pym has kept pace even as it’s gotten colder and harder to navigate. She looks frustrated and embarrassed whenever her foot slips, even though she has no reason to be. He can practically hear the complaints at the pace that his brothers would have made no matter how many times he would tell them to be silent. Pym just presses her lips together and pushes herself harder.

Finally, blissfully, he hears the sound of a whinny he thinks could be Goliath. Though it seems like they’re too far to be close enough. He guides Pym to the side of the tree and peers down through the branches.

It’s Goliath, but he’s not alone.

Arthur is leading him. Goliath is good at finding him, but he’s not that good. Arthur isn’t alone. Lancelot has no idea what he’s promised her, but sitting on the front of the saddle looking directly up at him is Tristain. Her eyes narrow and Arthur peers upwards as well. The look on his face is far friendlier. The woods still have look out parties and Tristain is gagged but she could still betray them. He should be furious, but seeing a friendly face makes the iron band around his heart loosen. The unmistakable feeing of being safe pushes at him and he has to temper it. Pym is less steady but she relaxes at the look on his face.

“It’s Arthur,” he says and she looks like she could collapse in relief, “can you make it down?”

“Yes,” she says, “I’ve been climbing trees in worse states than this,” she tells him.

He nods and picks his way down first, choosing an easy path. But she doesn’t slip as she mades her way down after him, making it easily to the final branch. It’s a longer fall, but Goliath shuffles forward and positions himself so Lancelot can lower himself down and land gently on his back. Pym does the same, though Lancelot catches her, mindful of the bigger drop. She looks at Arthur who offers them both a grin. She also looks surprised a the sight of Tristain.

“It’s not safe here,” he says.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Arthur agrees, “here,” he says and hands the reins to Tristain, “remember the agreement.”

Lancelot is surprised and he sees she’s still shackled but with a longer chain. Her fingers curl around the leather and she gives Lancelot a sharp look before digging her heels into the horse’s flanks. Lancelot tightens his grip on Pym and Goliath’s reins and steers him after her. He can smell the Fey but surprisingly Tristain does not take them back the way they came. She steers them towards the scent of other Fey. Several times Arthur looks back at him and Lancelot realizes he’s making sure they’re going in the correct direction. It’s a harder thing than he wants to admit to juggle following Tristain, keeping an eye on where they are suppose to be going and feeling Pym’s shivers get worse as their shared body heat helps warm her up.

“We’re close,” he tells her.

“A-alright,” she says, too cold for anything else.

The moment they are at the church he dismounts and helps her. Walking into it does not feel ideal but it’s not overwhelming in the same way. Or perhaps it’s just his survival instinct kicking back in. Then again he’s learned that however he is punished for acting on wants, there are some that are worth that pain. The idea of sitting outside while Pym shivers is far more unbearable than being in that building. He glances back to make sure Arthur is able to handle Tristain but she seems unusually cooperative. He has to trust Arthur. When they get into the light the first thing he notices is how pale she is. The second are all the little scrapes. Warming her is the priority, then they can worry about the scrapes.

“What happened?” Squirrel asks immediately, “I saw the Fire.”

He’s about to tell him to go but thinks better of it. There’s a true panic in Squirrels eyes. Lancelot knows Pym isn’t in real danger but she looks like death warmed over. This past morning feels like a lifetime ago. But Lancelot remembers the guilt of not paying attention to Squirrel while lost in his own problems. Besides, this is something he can genuinely help with.

“I need you to find something else for her to wear. Go to Guinevere,” he orders, “start with the fact that she’s alright.”

Squirrel nods and runs off to accomplish his task. Lancelot leads Pym back to the healers room. Merlin is already there tending to the fire. He glances at them and nods before making himself blissfully absent. Lancelot grabs the blanket from the bed. It’s not ideal but it will do.

“Take your dress off and wrap this around yourself,” he says.

She nods and he turns around. It takes a bit longer for her to get her dress off but he hears the fabric hit the ground with a wet sound. When he turns around she’s got the blanket tight around herself and is shuffling over to the fire, not quite collapsing but sitting heavily down in front of it. Lancelot comes over to where she’s sitting, still shivering but looking very grateful to be dry.

“You did well,” he says.

“P-please,” she dismisses, rolling her eyes but some of the humor coming back to her face, “I barely kept stand-in-g.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anyone I their first patrol to keep up like you did,” he tells her.

“G-g-good,” she says, “or-r I’d th-think you were e-evil.”

He lowers himself cross legged next to her. He focuses on the energy he’s always vaguely aware of and directs it to his hands. It’s easier to do when he’s got a connection to some living root system but he’s not trying to make Fire. The kinetic energy heats his skin. He motions towards her and she shivers, looking at him confused.

“Give me whatever is coldest,” he says.

She brings out her hands from inside the blanket and clasps them around his. He puts his other hand above her head, where more heat is escaping. The shivering gets worse briefly before it goes away and the color starts returning to her lips and fingers. When he takes his hand from the crown of her head, she doesn’t immediately start shivering again. He almost misses her wince but not quite.

“What hurts?”

“It’s just the blood coming back to my fingers,” she says. He looks at her blankly, “have you ever hand your fingers and toes go numb?”

“I redirect my energy,” he says.

“Of course you do,” she says, exasperated but still soft. He manages to smile, somewhat embarrassed, “you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, “let me see your feet.”

“They’re not as bad as the probably look,” she warns, gripping the blanket and shifting so her feet are exposed.

The scrapes are minor, but some of the skin is raw and a few scratches are there. He’s glad that if they have other Fey, they weren’t out or they hadn’t thought to look up there. There isn’t a lot. His primary concern is making sure there’s no thorns in them, but there doesn’t seem to be. Just pink patches of skin. It seems like a lifetime ago that he was sitting with her foot in his lap, making sure she hadn’t broke it kicking in a Trinity Guard’s mask when they foolishly kidnapped her. Now he just cups her feet between his hands and helps bring warmth back into them.

“I found clothes,” Squirrel says, drawing both their attention to the door, “and soup and bread,” he sets the tray down and the bundle of cloth, “and I convinced Guinevere not to ‘murder you wear you stand’.”

“I’m not standing,” Lancelot points out.

Squirrel gives him a look reminiscent of Pym’s exasperation before turning to her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says, “I’m warmer now,” she smiles at him, “Lancelot says I did well for my first patrol.”

“He says I have to learn to be quiet before I can do mine,” Squirrel says, folding his arms.

“It’s hard to be quiet,” Pym agrees, “thank you for getting all of this.”

“It was nothing,” Squirrel says, “Kaze says the soup will help. She says she was cold all the time when she came here. She also says you should cover your head.”

“Lancelot warmed my head,” she promises.

“Your hair looks dry,” Squirrel says.

The two of them stare at each other for a moment and Lancelot doesn’t know what they both look horrified about. Pym sighs and shakes her head.

“It’s not really a problem,” she says, “we have bigger things to worry about anyway.”

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“The boys used to make fun of her hair when she had it like that,” Squirrel says, “and the girls.”

“It was nothing,” Pym says, and at least she’s warm enough to blush. She undoes the leather and Lancelot remembers his own hair is down, “they made fun of me for other things as well.”

“Yeah but—“

“It was just teasing,” Pym cuts him off, unwinding her braid, “we’ve moved past that. I’m just glad it’s dry. Though I’m half tempted to shave it like you,” she says to Squirrel.

Squirrel shudders. His hair is inching closer to his ears and he savors every bit that it gets longer. Lancelot has no idea why anyone would mock Pym’s hair. Without the weight of the water, it’s still impossibly long. But now it curls and seems to catch the light of the fire the way that his marks do.

Lancelot’s spent most of his life away from women except either as nuns or as sinners. But the first thing that comes to mind is a painting he saw once, of the sinner washing the Lord’s feet and drying them with her hair. It was an act of devotion that absolved her sins. He knows Father was there, explaining that a great enough sacrifice would cleanse him. But in his memory, he cannot even remember the words. Just the general tone. He remembers the painting though. 

He remembers thinking it was beautiful.

The absence of Father’s voice isn’t the only strange thing. When he thinks of the painting, he knows he flogged himself for coveting it. Material things were not to be coveted, though he did the same when he coveted the story of David and Goliath. The painting was worse though. It was a false idol. He remembers the flog, but his back doesn’t itch or ache for it like most of his memories.

“Are you okay?” Squirrel asks.

“Yes,” he says quickly, jerked back to reality, “your hair reminded me of something.”

“Aright, what?” She says, but some of the humor has dropped out of her tone. She’s sensitive about it, he realizes.

“A painting I saw a long time ago,” he says.

“Oh,” Pym says, tucking a lock behind her ear.

Something seems to settle between them, something that Lancelot has no concept of. It feels warm, different than the Fire he wields and different than any fire he’s encountered. It seems to start from some other part of him, some part he knows he should atone for but doesn’t feel particularly sorry about. He doesn’t know how to ask if Pym feels it as well. Squirrel clearing his throat loudly seems to break it before he can figure it out, but if he focuses he can still feel it.

“Does anyone want soup? It’s supposed to help you warm up but you’re both bright red.”

“Must be the fire,” Pym says and takes the bowl.

Lancelot nods in agreement. He takes the bowl from Squirrel.

She shivers so, she must be right.


	20. Chapter 20

“I am glad you’re better,” Gawain sighs, appearing next to her.

Pym looks at him, surprised. She realizes he’s been scarce the past few days. She’s not sure if that is because of something beyond this world or some practical mission she doesn’t know about. She feels warmer, maybe even better. Until she thinks about the woods and the search parties. They have some protection here but she’s not sure if it is enough. If anywhere will be safe. She has to remind herself that nowhere truly is.

“I wasn’t that sick,” she says, “just cold.”

“I wasn’t talking about physically,” Gawain says, “though I am glad you were warmed.”

Pym wonders if there’s anything in the book about blush too much, surely spending this much time in her cheeks is robbing some other organ of blood. Gawain has known her longer than anyone else on earth at the moment, he’s seen her family lose everything and seen her mourn. Though the last time he was off to become a Knight and Nimue was beginning her training. They both checked in on her, as much as children could check in on one another.

“Thank you,” she says, “I’m lucky to have understanding friends.”

“You know you need friends among the living,” Gawain says, “you cannot live among the dead.”

“Is this your way of saying you’ve been avoiding me?” She inquires. He smiles faintly and inclines his head.

“In a way, I suppose,” he agrees, “it’s more an apology.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” she says, “you’re beyond all of this,” she says, “and I wasn’t alone.”

Gawain nods, the dreamy look breaking for a moment before it drifts back across his face. He is beyond this and she hasn’t been alone. Pym still isn’t sure why he’s stayed. Duty, she imagines. Or something else. But he’s chosen to stay and fight while also being beyond things like anger or sadness or fear. It sounds terrifying to her, but it is what he has chosen. And Gawain has always been the bravest of them.

“I’m glad,” he says, “glad none of you have been alone,” he sighs, “though how you have not driven each other mad is a mystery beyond even my comprehension.”

Pym recognizes the joke for what it is and rolls her eyes. It’s been a near thing more times than she would like to admit. But as she watches Lancelot guide Squirrel through the motions of using a sword with a stick, she can admit it has been worth it. More than worth it. Even if there were many moments when she thought she would pull her hair out if she couldn’t strangle Lancelot for what he took or gag Squirrel to have a moment of quiet and one less thing to worry about.

“I suppose some things must remain a mystery even to you,” she says. She looks at him, “how did Arthur convince Tristain to help?”

“He offered to let her ride back,” Gawain says.

“That’s all?”

Gawain nods.

Pym thinks of the way that Lancelot speaks with his movements better than his mouth, how his skin sometimes itches and aches for a flog. How much steadier he started to seem after he began to do the physical movements he does with Squirrel. She imagines Tristain must work much the same. The sound of the cloth wrapped striking each other draws her attention back to the training. The sound seems dangerously loud but she supposes if the search parties can hear that, they’re already dead. Squirrel puts up a good fight, there are even a few times when he nearly hits Lancelot, though in the end the elder is victorious. But when they nod at each other there’s respect in the gesture.

“I’m sorry he couldn’t be your Squire,” she says to Gawain.

“He was,” Gawain says and something very mischievous and alive sparks in the wise depths of his eyes, “probably for as long as I could have stood it,” she hears the sound of someone hitting the grass and watches Lancelot roll to his feet as Kaze smirks, “Squirrel is where he should be. Lancelot will be where he should, soon enough.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, trying not to be distracted by the flash of purple as Kaze fakes him out and Lancelot gives his own version of her smile, “where he should be?”

“A Knight,” Gawain says. He looks at her curiously, “what did you think I meant?”

Pym steers her thoughts from Merlin and his stupid golden city and shakes her head.

“I don’t know—“ she inhales sharply as the two go blow for blow. There’s something operatic about it, but both seem to be enjoying themselves very thoroughly, “are they going to hurt each other?”

“They seem quite in control,” Gawain says.

“I know but—“ she almost stands up when Lancelot executes some complicated, almost balletic move, only to be met by Kaze throwing him over her hip when he lands, “how on earth—“

“They’ve been doing this for months,” Gawain says and Pym doesn’t know why it makes her stomach clench. But she doesn’t like it. One of them smacks the dirt purposefully and they both get up, exchanging the same kind of respectful nod that he and Squirrel gave each other, “they are well matched,” Gawain says.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“As fighters,” Gawain adds.

“Obviously,” Pym says, unsure of why she feels miserable, “that’s how he communicates.”

“Not anymore,” Gawain remarks. Pym looks at him, “when he came to me in that tent, even before that, he barely spoke,” he looks back at the group, “compared to that, he’s practically Squirrel now.”

Pym nods and wonders why on earth she feels odd at those few words. He and Kaze are very well matched, they are both skilled Fey warriors. They speak a language that Pym does not. Across everything that they have done, across their vast differences, there’s an ease to their communication. She recognizes the feeling from the tree and Lancelot saying other people were giving him advice. It’s not a feeling she wants to linger on. It’s something she’s learned not to linger on, not after years spent going to the market with Nimue. Maybe she’s just getting sick. Or maybe it’s the discomfort of the clothes she’s wearing.

She’s grateful and she’s already apologized to Guinevere who waved her off and told her she didn’t care about a stupid thing like a dress. Pym almost said she didn’t believe her, but given the dress that Squirrel showed up with she can see why she wouldn’t. Just to be sure Guinevere had called after her that she didn’t care about that one either. Pym doesn’t know how she doesn’t, this one is fashioned like a long coat that buttons down the front. Embroidery climbs up the sleeves and down the two front panels. It’s the same violet shade with the embroidery being just a bit darker and the underdress a bit lighter. She’s beginning to think that these were Guinevere’s colors.

But it’s silly to be worrying about dresses when there’s an army approaching anytime.

“He just needed a peer to talk to,” she dismisses.

“You never were a very good liar,” Gawain says.

“I—I can lie,” Pym sputters out. Gawain gives her a look that Pym is fairly certain the living are not supposed to be on the receiving end of, “I’m getting better.”

“Perhaps one day we will make a world where you will not have to lie,” he says.

Pym does’t dare hope for something so foolish. And she has been getting better. A bit. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on her part. It’s not as though she’s truly had to lie in a while. Well, not since she told Merlin she didn’t care about his stupid city or who is or is not there. Perhaps Merlin knew she was lying, though she doubts it. Or maybe he’s just saving that secret for another time. It’s not something she particularly wants to think about. Which—seems to be an increasingly large number of things.

“How did Arthur get Tristain to cooperate?” She asks.

“I believe he promised she could steer the horse back,” Gawain says. Pym raises her eyebrows, “if someone has spent their life moving and cannot, it’s not an easy thing.”

“You’ve been talking to her,” Pym says.

“When she wishes,” Gawain replies, “which is not very often. But she is more curious as of late. Or more polite.”

“I told her that if she cooperated she could confess to the priest,” Pym admits.

Gawain smiles again but winds up looking far more like the Fey he once was.

“That was quite smart of you,” he says.

Pym shrugs and feels her cheeks get warm.

“Lancelot’s been sharing some of the stories that the Catholics have,” she says, “and their beliefs. Confessing seemed like something someone who believed in that would want. I just happened to be partially right. It seems like the thing she really wanted was to ride around.”

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” Gawain says, rising to his feet, “though at least when you believe in yourself, you will know it’s honest.”

Pym shakes her head, getting to her own feet as he walks off, at first she thinks to fight Kaze but it’s actually Squirrel he brings over. She gives Squirrel a curious look and he shrugs, seeming just as confused as she is. Gawain puts himself so he and Squirrel are just about level.

“You know there is a battle coming,” he says, “many, in fact. And you are too young to fight in them.”

“I know,” Squirrel says. Pym almost sighs in relief, “I would like to give your Squire a gift,” he says, “but I would not do it without your permission.”

“What is it?” Squirrel asks. Gawain motions him forward and whispers something. Squirrel considers for a moment and then nods, “I think that’d be good.”

“I’m glad,” Gawain says and there’s no joke in his voice. He looks at Pym, “your skills may be required.”

She nods, still unsure. Before she can ask though Gawain has moved away. When Squirrel comes back he’s got Lancelot and Kaze following him. Kaze gives a knowing look and ducks away, only leading to more questions. Lancelot doesn’t seem to know what’s going on anymore than she does.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” she says.

“Just wait,” Squirrel says.

“What’s going on?” Lancelot asks as Gawain comes back, carrying something wrapped in cloth. Pym barely needs to glance at it to guess what it might be. But when Kaze comes back with a familiar bundle of cloth, she guesses what it might be.

“I’ve been given permission from your Knight, to gift you something. It’s the responsibility of a Knight to arm his Squire, but yours has graciously allowed this exception,” Gawain says, “circumstances being what they are.”

He sets the bundle down.

Inside is his armor.

Lancelot pales slightly and Pym suddenly finds her eyes stinging. It’s a painful reminder of the man Gawain used to be. She remembers him getting the armor, how proud he was even when it was too big for him. He grew into it. It’s been repaired and polished, not that Fey armor needs it often. Kaze has the under jacket. The two are a similar size, or were, but Pym imagines some slight altering will be needed.

“You are among your brothers,” Gawain says, “and your friends. You should go into this battle knowing who they are.”

Lancelot stares at the armor and Pym finds she’s holding her breath. She doesn’t exhale until he nods. Even as she remembers his words in the tree. She doesn’t want to break the moment, she can feel the weight of it. Even when Kaze claps his shoulder and helps him into the layer. She looks for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, but even he seems caught in the weight of the moment. The armor is designed for ease but the straps are odd if never used before and stranger still if you’ve never taught someone else to put on armor.

“Let me help,” she says.

“Full circle, I suppose,” Gawain says.

Pym shakes her head and finds the familiar straps, helping him until the armor is more or less where it’s supposed to be. The entire time Lancelot holds himself rigidly, almost like he’s afraid to breathe even though Pym is sure it’s not that tight.

“Can you give us a moment?” She asks, “I need him to relax so I can see what I need to adjust.”

The three trade glances before stepping back. Pym doesn’t know why the trading glances seems to be happening more and that’s not her concern. She looks up at him.

  
“I can lie and say that I can’t make it fit you,” she says, “if this isn’t something you want to do.”

“I do,” he says. She keeps their eyes together, “I’ve never worn armor before.”

“Fey armor or—“

  
“Armor.”

She tries to think if she’s ever seen Paladins or Guards in it and she’s certain she has. Usually hidden under their red robes. The Guards absolutely. She remembers feeling it before and the few pieces Tristain was wearing when they took her.

“Goliath has armor,” she says.

Lancelot just looks at her and she knows. Whether it was because Father Carden thought he was touched by God or just sadistic, she can’t say. She doesn’t want to think about it. He has armor now. That is the most important thing.

“Can you relax?” She asks. His lips curve up faintly and she shakes her head, “silly question but just try,” she glances over, “Squirrel!” He comes trotting around the corner, “just start talking.”

“About what? You look great in that armor,” he says, “like a real Knight. I’m glad you two can be safe. Or safe as Gawain can be since he’s already dead—“

Lancelot’s posture softens and Pym focuses her magic, loosening and tying different knots to accommodate Lancelot’s shoulders and height and his forearms. She tightens others that are slightly loose. Finally she can say it fits him very well. She pulls her hands back as Squirrel keeps talking and opens her eyes. It’s odd only in how not odd it is to see Lancelot in Fey armor, listening to Squirrel ramble. In some other world perhaps he would be the Knight he will one day be and Squirrel would be his Squire. But in this world, she can enjoy the oddities of the situation for what they are.

“Better?” Squirrel finishes, jerking her back to reality, “it fits better right?”

Lancelot nods.

“We should practice again, to make sure,” Squirrel says.

“You’ll need this,” Gawain says, appearing and handing him the helm, “and these.”

Lancelot drops the helm.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Gawain says, “for keeping them from you.”

“But if you are fighting with us as our brother, we think they will serve you well again.”

At her words Pym realizes why the blades he holds are different. Though how he’s gotten them, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how Gawain has any of these things. It’s not nearly the strangest thing about him but it is still surprising. 

“Hey you’ve got your swords back,” Squirrel says, “I remember those. Wait till you see him fight with them.”

Lancelot looks over at her. Even someone not trained like her can see the difference in those compared to the swords he keeps taking off the Paladins. Much in the same way that Goliath’s armor and saddle are exquisitely well made, the blades are too. When his fingers touch the pommel, she can see how well it would fit his hand. He looks over at her and she realizes that he’s looking for her reaction. The swords have spilled so much blood, but Goliath has witnessed it. If the swords prove half as brave and useful as him, then they belong here.

“Not against you,” she says to Squirrel.

“I’m not ‘allowed’,” he says, “not yet.”

“Try them on,” she says to Lancelot. He takes the blades, “hold on,” she says, immediately seeing the problem, “put them on the cloth.”

She takes the blade off her belt, still not used to dealing with the new style of dress. He’s never worn armor. It echoes in her head as she uses the knife to add new holes to the belts. He’s never worn it but the belts were clearly designed for the option. Not that a lack of armor has stopped him or saved any lives. She makes the new hole. Her hands hesitate for only a moment before she picks up the swords and holds them out to him.

“Now they should fit,” she says.

He settles them around his hips and nods, his eyes lingering on her.   
  
“You look like a Fey,” Arthur remarks, drawing their attention. His eyes linger on the blades now resting at Lancelot’s side, “I see you got your swords back.”

“And you rightfully have one,” Lancelot replies.

“I could do with a rematch,” Arthur says.

Pym isn’t sure how the two have started circling each other. They are friends now. But both seem eager to test their skill.

“Let them get it out of their systems,” Kaze advises.

“Get what out?” Pym questions.

“You’ll see,” Gawain says as they draw their blades.

It’s the most like himself she’s seen Gawain look. So she ignores the healer in her and the reminder that very soon it won’t be friends who meet on the battlefield and watches them fight.


	21. Chapter 21

“Oh, hello,” Bedivere says, plainly surprised to see him again, “what are you doing here?” He rises up and Lancelot shakes his head, “alright,” he says, easing himself back down.

Lancelot isn’t sure what he’s doing here. Eydis and Abbott Wicklow have been spotted and so they ride at dawn to fight in what promises to be the first of many battles for the throne. Those who cannot fight or are too young are staying. Pym and Squirrel among them. They plan to build their base from this place. He has no reason to be down here in Bedivere's cell. Being inside the walls to care for others is acceptable if not slightly uncomfortable. But Pym is alive with nothing more than slight sniffles and sore feet. The unpleasant but tolerable feeling holds. Coming here, speaking to Bedivere, all of it seems far more like risking something he shouldn’t. And yet his feet have taken him here. Father Bedivere looks at him and it’s quiet except for the beads in his hand moving gently against each other. They stare at each other silently until Bedivere breaks first.

“Lancelot?”

“I killed Paladins,” he says. Bedivere’s face slides into something neutral, “by nightfall tomorrow, I’ll have killed many more. An Abbot and the Trinity Guard will be among them.”

Bedivere leans back and Lancelot realizes he’s holding his breath.

“Are you here to confess?” Bedivere asks, not unkindly.

“I don’t know.”

He’s not sure what possesses him to sit across from the Priest. It feels traitorous, sitting here with him. Traitorous and pathetic. The Fey are willing to accept him, fight with him in brotherhood. And here he is, struggling with a God that has rejected him. Feeling once again like an enemy in a costume, who can be accepted if he is useful but ultimately will always be an other. He’s not sure why that drives him back to a place of rejection. He feels the familiar frustration welling up, though the despair is more absent.

“I’ve been given armor.”

Bedivere cringes.

Lancelot doesn’t know why it makes him feel angry and disappointed. It was acceptable, even to him. If he was hurt, God saw fit to have him be cleansed. If he was not, then God looked on his actions favorably. Father told him that he could not follow the rules that the other Paladins did, they did not apply to him. He was demon born. His road to Salvation was a more difficult one. There was less freedom in it. He knows now how much of a lie that was. But his heart still wonders if he had been more devoted to it, could he have felt the Grace he always strove for? Or did that not exist either?

“That’s good,” Bedivere says.

“It’s Fey.”

“You need protection.”

Lancelot loathes the logic in his voice, even though he’s told himself the same thing. The protection is important. Goliath has his armor, which has become some mix of Paladin and Raider leather, held together with Fey workmanship. Why should he turn down the same? Or have any feelings on it at all?

“I thought God was supposed to protect us,” he counters.

Bedivere suddenly looks old. Lancelot recognizes the guilt on his face even as he turns his head down. He gets to his feet. Lancelot watches as he crosses the small distance and sits next to him, so they both are staring at the same place in the wall.

“God has protected you.”

“My abilities have nothing to do with God—“

“Of course they do. They are a gift.”

Lancelot thinks of that night and the sword falling and the look in Father’s eyes. He looked mad, he thinks. And the excitement that someone could take from injuring a child is repulsive, it was repulsive even before he broke free. Even when he believed everything else.

“Father said the same thing.”

“He lied,” Bedivere says, putting the beads aside. Lancelot looks at him, “or perhaps he believed, but his intentions were always to use you.”

“Do you believe Fey are demon born?”

Bedivere looks at him.

“No,” he says, “and I feel foolish for ever thinking otherwise. It should not have taken the Moon Wings kindness to make me see that.”

“But you believe in God.”

“The Paladins were not my first teachers,” Bedivere says, “when they cast me out—eve before that—I saw them as men. As peers,” he explains, “we were all Men of the Cloth. If I am a man, then so are they.”

It makes a perverse sense to him. But it also speaks of his own weakness. The Ash Folk knew that children were weak. Inherently. Protecting their secrets was worth all their lives. He isn’t sure if he knew what was coming or if they had let him be ignorant. He just remembers being told to be brave and doing the exact opposite. The voice that told him to be brave then echoes with Father’s tone, telling him the same thing.

“I am not,” Lancelot says.

“No,” Bedivere agrees, “you are not. But you know our ways, no Fey can say that,” he looks at him curiously and Bedivere continues, “I believe that God has kept you alive for that reason. To stand in both worlds,” something must show on Lancelot’s face because sympathy shines in Bedivere’s eyes, “it’s not a position I envy. But I can think of no-one else who could handle it better.”

Lancelot doesn’t know how there can be any trust between them after what they have been through. No more than he knows how to pray anymore. He isn’t even sure what he expected when he came into the cell. Perhaps some connection with the past, even as he turns to the future. Or maybe some reminder of the lessons of it, so as not to repeat it a third time. Though these Fey have far more of a right to want him dead than any of the other groups that have tried to kill him.

“I need to ask you a favor,” Lancelot says.

“Anything,” Bedivere promises.

  
“There’s another prisoner here. She’s asked that you hear her confession. If I do not return, will you honor that?”

He’s not sure any others will understand. Except perhaps Pym but if he dies, he imagines she will be busy. He doesn’t know why it’s important, considering it’s a surprise Tristain didn’t lead them back to her fellow Guards. She still wants him dead. But if he dies, then any chance of her being not immediately killed is gone. Lancelot is not a good like Gawain, the idea of reaching out to her is laughable. Perhaps she does deserve to rot in the cell, but he imagines that the argument could be made he does as well. He remembers the foreign feeling of kindness. He can do this one thing. Bedivere nods at the request.

“I’ll hear her confession,” Bedivere says. Lancelot nods his thanks, “I will hear yours as well, if you wish to give it.”

“I cannot,” he says.

“I wouldn’t ask you to flog yourself,” Bedivere says. Lancelot looks over at him, “to repent, I don’t think God wishes for us to do that.”

Lancelot knows he will be asked to pray. And he cannot. Not in the way he once did. His Faith has been shaken, if it exists at all. Perhaps his Faith was as twisted as all the other things Father Carden put upon him. With Father Bedivere’s promise, he pushes himself up. He hears him straighten up as well, though he remains seated.

“God has not forgotten about you,” Bedivere says, “and—if you change your mind,” he smiles, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a joke and a promise all in one. Lancelot finds he can do nothing but nod.

He picks his way through, not back to the main room but to the smaller chapel. It can barely be called such. The church they’re in isn’t grand. It’s not like some of the great Cathedrals he’s heard about or the few he’s visited. But there are quiet offshoots. He settles into one, looking at the cross. God is as absent here as He is everywhere else. And Lancelot doesn’t have it in him to beg. So he sits until he hears someone approaching.

As she approaches, he realizes he can recognize her gait.

It’s thrown off by her scraped feet, but it strikes him as odd that he can recognize her by it and not just by her scent. She walks to where he’s sitting and gives him a curious look. He doesn’t hesitate in nodding to let her know she can join him. She comes inside and joins him, sitting next to him.

“Are we allowed to talk in here?” He nods, “is this usually how you spend the night before a battle?”

“I usually prayed.”

“For what?”

He looks over at her. She shrugs and looks at the cross.

“I just prayed,” he says, “I tried to repent for being demon born.”

“Which you aren’t,” she points out. He only hesitates a moment before nodding, “what will you pray for now?”

He wonders how there’s no accusation in her tone. She’s never felt God’s Grace, horrible things have been done to her kind in His name. And yet she seems able to separate the faith from the men who enforce it in a way he hasn’t figured out. She doesn’t belittle his beliefs or mock him for being there. She asks a simple question, one that shouldn’t set off the emotions it does.

“I don’t know,” he says, “the only prayers I’ve said of late have been to put out the Fire.”

“But that’s just how you do that,” she says, “it was the only thing I could think of in the moment. It’s you who’s putting it out. That’s just how your body understands it.”

He knows she has a point. Though now he better understands what Squirrel was saying about being hungry and eating. He knows what that feels like now. He know more about the mundane things Pym and Squirrel talk about. It’s not something he ever expected, but then he never expected them either.

“It was a smart idea,” he says.

“Thank you,” the silence settles oddly over them, as it has been doing and he isn’t certain why. Before either of their faces can get hotter, she clears her throat, “Gawain would meditate, back when he had to do ‘such thing’s,” she says.

“I’ve been teaching Squirrel,” he tells her.

“That’s good,” she says with a smile.

He does not know how long they sit there for. Though he cannot find it in himself to pray, he can find that quiet headspace he’s taught Squirrel to go to. Perhaps that is the most like praying he will be able to do. It’s not the same. It is a comfort though. More than he should expect anyway. He’s not sure when he nods off.

He opens his eyes to the cold pre-dawn.

His cheek is resting on Pym’s head and hers has fallen onto his shoulder. Somehow in the night he’s angled himself towards her, making up the difference in their height. The crown of her head is nearly in the crook of his neck. He can feel her breath against his healed skin and his scars. It’s an odd but not unpleasant feeling. The warmth against his cheek has made it easier to rest somehow. He realizes that he cannot remember his dreams. It’s the kind of deep sleep that is new to him, one he only seems capable of when he’s around her and Squirrel.

One he doesn’t know if he will get again.

The thought shouldn’t frighten him. This is no different from fights that he’s had before. He knows that he is fighting on the correct side, of at least he is fighting for something he believes. But it is the first time he’s gone into battle knowing there is something he wants to come back to. It will not be the last time. Whatever the future holds, if he survives this battle or this war, there will be others. There will always be others. It’s never been something he’s questioned or thought about not wanting. He’s not even certain he truly wants something else.

His eyes drift to the cross on the wall.

Something settles over him, something he cannot explain. He’s afraid to think too hard on it, to dare hope it may be what he wants it to be. Pym’s head is on his left shoulder. He’s careful not to disturb her as he moves his right hand in the familiar gesture and lowers his head. The feeling doesn’t go away. It envelopes him, like a caress. It’s not tangible, it’s not even intangible in the way the energy he pulls is. Though it seems to be the most familiar thing he can think of. It does not matter what has happened, just like the Fire does not understand being used for death or life. It’s like Gawain, like Morgana, like Nimue slipping below the water. It is beyond all of this.

Lancelot prays.

Not for salvation but for guidance, for the safety of those around him. For peace for those who will die. The sun creeps higher as he does. He’s still praying when he feels Pym stir, though she does not move. Not until he makes the sign again. Only then when he looks over does she open her eyes and seem to wake.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods.

Neither of them speak as they go to the hears room where Pym has things ready. There are more beds nearby, a remind of what is to come. It’s easier to don the armor a second time, even if it still feels foreign to him. Pym stands nearby. When he turns to face her, he doesn’t feel like himself but he feels ready for what will come.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you the amulet,” she says.

“Squirrel needs it,” He reminds her. She sighs and nods, they both know no matter how much he’s watched the chances of him getting free and getting into trouble are much higher, “you’ll keep him close?”

“I’ll tie him to me if I have to,” she says.

“It won’t work if you use your magic.”

“Lancelot, I’ll keep him close,” she repeats, “and if he escapes, you’ve trained him well. He’ll be alright. We’ll be here when you return.”

He glances away, knowing he needs to trust her. She and Squirrel have survived the people he’s fighting. They can keep themselves safe. He owes them that much respect, even if there is a part of him that is screaming at the idea of leaving them unattended.

“Keep your knife close,” he says.

“Now you sound like Guinevere,” she scolds, but the usual humor is gone from her voice. He knows that it’s time, “Come back?” He looks at her sharply, “it’s your choice, what you’re willing to do or not to do. I don’t know how you go into battle,” she bites her lip, “I want you to come back, if you’re taking suggestions.”

“I will,” she nods but the look doesn’t reach the rest of her face like it does when she believes him, “I want to as well.”

She nods, believing that.

“Then I’ll see you when you return.”

He nods.

“Be careful,” she calls after him.

Lancelot finds Squirrel by Goliath. The horse is lipping at the boy’s hand affectionately. Lancelot can smell apples in the air. Goliath is saddled and everything is in place and he realizes why Squirrel has been absent this morning. It’s the kind of thing a Squire would do. But Squirrel does it without complaint or his usual snark. Lancelot wishes that he had something comforting to say to him. Instead he pulls one of the short swords he’s taken from one of the Paladins and hands it to him.

“Keep your guard up. And keep Pym safe,” he orders.

Squirrel clutches the sword and nods.

“Oh, wait—“ he pats himself down and grabs a cloth, handing it to him, “I saved you bread. In case you got hungry.”

Lancelot nods to him and climbs into the saddle. Squirrel looks up at him in a wide eyed way that Lancelot is surprised the boy is capable of anymore. From the higher angle, he still checks to make sure the amulet is around the boy’s neck, not snuck into his saddle. But the black cord is there.

“Take care,” Squirrel says.

“You as well,” Lancelot tells him, glancing up to see Pym standing in the doorway. It feels like a lifetime ago when he cut Squirrel free and looked down at him, ordering him to go. Now he does not cut him free, but he still nods at him. “Go.”

And he still watches as Squirrel runs.

Then he turns Goliath and heads in the opposite direction.


	22. Chapter 22

She finds Squirrel sitting with the horse.

He looks very small and she sees her own worries reflected on his face. She’s been trying not to think of Dof, she’s sure Squirrel has been trying not to think of Gawain. Though the other horse does not have Goliath’s uncanny abilities, she imagines those will come with time. The thought of watching all four of them ride off into battle makes her heart ache but she knows that is a ways off. Or perhaps Merlin’s vision means she will be dead before it comes to pass. Not losing more people sounds wonderful, even if it’s because she goes first. She pushes the worry aside as well. She’s here to see about Squirrel, who has a long life ahead of him.

“The horse still needs a name,” she says, joining him in the grass.

“He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” 

“He’s the best fighter we have,” she says, “and he can heal.”

“I mean inside,” Squirrel says, “he’s not fighting them to protect us. He’s not going to stop talking again right?”

There’s fear on his face. Fear Pym wasn’t aware she shared. It’s true, every time Lancelot has gone into a fight and killed his former brothers, it’s been because one of them is in danger. Usually her, if she thinks about the most recent times. It’s just bad luck or proximity. But when he’s killed to keep them safe, there’s a peace to him. Or at least an understanding of what he’s fighting for. Without them there—immediately she chastises herself.

“He’s fighting to keep our friends safe,” she says, “his friends safe. It’s the same thing.”

“No it’s not,” Squirrel says.

“What do you mean?”

“We were his friends first,” he says, “it’s different with us,” he looks at her, “we’re more than friends. We’re bound together, remember?”

Pym know that they are but it’s the same kind of thinking that makes her insides squirm. Like when she watched him and Kaze fight. Communicating so effortlessly, in a way she’s not sure she’ll ever understand. She refuses to entertain such things like that feeling. She’s not a girl watching her friend parade around in another new dress. She would wear a sack if she could have Nimue and their friendship back like when they were girls. She refuses to name the feeling though, that’s one step farther than she’s able to go.

“Us being friends first doesn’t mean we’re his only friends,” she says to Squirrel, “I think he’ll be alright protecting his other friends—our friends.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Squirrel says, folding his arms.

Pym sighs and wishes that she didn’t. Lancelot needs others—he has others—that is important.

“I don’t,” Pym says, trying to get at what he actually means.

“Yes you do, that’s why you two always sneak off together,” Squirrel says.

“He’s talked with others—“

“But he wants to talk to you,” Squirrel cuts in, unwilling to take her explanations, “and you want to talk to him. That’s why he could kill for you and not feel bad about it.”

Pym feels her mouth go dry.

There are the oddest times when someone will point out something and she’ll feel like ice has been dropped down the back of her dress. She sometimes felt that way when people would question what Nimue would do for the one friend they thought of her having. Though Nimue always did her best to keep her powers tucked away, Pym’s not sure that even she knew the full extent of them before she went into the Lake. And even if she had, Pym would never have asked.

Lancelot is different.

That physical language that she doesn’t speak, it seems to betray her to him at every turn. He’s also not afraid of his powers. He’s afraid of what they mean, what they could condemn him to, of breaking the rules his people had for them. But she’s never actually seen him afraid of the powers themselves. She’d only heard stories about Fey Fire. Now she knows Squirrel is right and if she asked, through some twisted combination of his lingering indoctrination to follow orders and their closeness, she thinks she could burn the entire village down. She thinks about how many times in those early days she demanded he heal himself. The Fire is just one step further.

“He was killing people who hurt him,” she says, “the last two, he felt bad about it.”

“He’d still do it.”

Pym presses her lips together. She has the strangest urge to go find Lancelot and tell him he shouldn’t kill anyone for her. But he’s not anywhere she can go. She doesn’t like the feeling of it. Logically she knows that he’s gone but she has the strangest urge to go looking for him. Even though Squirrel is embarrassingly right. They have been together more than they’ve been apart. At least since they got to the Church, but before that as well if she’s being honest with herself. Even when she had hidden away in her grief, there were quiet things like fresh water or food or herbs. Things that just seemed to appear. She realizes Lancelot was never as far as she thought.

There was a time when that would have filled her with dread.

Now it’s like an itch to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye.

“He’ll be back and we’ll deal with—whatever has happened then,” she says firmly.

“He’ll tell you,” Squirrel says, “he thinks I’m too young.”

“Not for much longer,” Pym promises, “if he tells me and there’s a way for you to help, I’ll get you,” she adds.

Squirrel sighs and doesn’t look particularly thrilled at the prospect, but he nods anyway. Pym knows it must be maddening. But the fact that everyone seems united in their desire to preserve whatever scrap of innocence the young ones have managed to cling to is something she’s glad for. It’s one of the few things that’s required no compromise or discussion. When she thinks of how she’s seen the Fey treat little ones they don’t like, she’s glad that’s something they are all united in changing.

“I hate waiting,” Squirrel admits.

“I do as well,” Pym agrees, looking at the trees. She tries not to think that in the next day or so they may wish for it, “he really does need a name,” she says.

Squirrel looks over at the horse who raises his head slightly before dropping it back down. But he steps closer to them. She supposes that’s something, even without Lancelot or Gawain or Goliath there to train him. Though the horse more than proved his bravery their first few days together. It’s hard to remember how crazy and chaotic they were, how much she longed to get back to the rest of them instead of being off on some insane adventure. Never in a thousand years did she think that she would long for those days, if only for the simple fact that the three of them were together and could look out for each other.

“I need to check on Merlin,” she says.

“I’ll come with you,” Squirrel replies, scrambling to his feet.

Pym gives him a curious look but he just falls into step besides her, scanning around as though he’s looking for threats. They head to the healer room though it’s spread out into more. Pym isn’t sure how she’s going to manage but tells herself she will just have to figure it out. Merlin is occupying one of the beds, he looks drawn but overall not nearly as terrible as she’s seen him. He raises his arm off his eyes and looks at both of them.

“There should be one more. Perhaps two,” he says.

“How are you feeling?” Pym asks.

”Physically worse than I have in decades,” he says, pushing himself up, “and emotionally,” he looks at her, “it’s how I usually am around High Summoners.”

“I already told you—“

“You’re not,” Merlin finishes and Pym clenches her jaw, “but you are.”

“Only because there is literally no-one else,” Pym says, “and only until the Hidden pick someone properly, if they chose. Have you been drinking? Water?”

Merlin looks at her and Pym has the strangest urge to push Squirrel out of the room before he can open his mouth. But letting Squirrel out of her sight is not an option. Better to let him be her shadow than run off after Lancelot and the others. No matter what he may overhear. Though she’s thinking of the city Merlin spoke of, the one he does not see her in, the thing she doesn’t want him to say around Squirrel, when Merlin’s gaze slides over to Percival, the urge to push him out of the room increases.

“I see they left you behind to guard us,” he says.

“They left me behind because I’m too young,” Squirrel says, “for now.”

“For now but not for always,” Merlin tells him, “you should treasure these times. Soon you’ll be riding off with them. And then you’ll be on a great adventure of your own.”

The change in his words makes Pym’s stomach drop. The look on Merlin’s face as he looks at Squirrel makes her step closer to him. Even Squirrel, who is usually the first for an adventure, looks somewhat nervous. Pym isn’t sure if it’s the look on his face or his words or the fact that Lancelot isn’t there, but Squirrel doesn’t look excited at either prospect.

“Merlin,” she says his name warningly and doesn’t regret it as he looks back at her, but the fearful feeling grows worse. She raises her chin, “enough with the riddles. Did you drink water?”

Merlin seems to come back to himself somewhat and the look eases slightly. Grudgingly he nods, shifting from terrifying druid to pouting patient with a speed that makes Pym’s head spin. Or maybe the kinds of monsters Merlin and Lancelot were twisted into don’t like scaring children. Either way if he stops she’s glad of it. She glances around the room for any sign he’s lying or telling the truth or hiding something. None appears. But the look on his face is gone and at the moment that matters more than she cares to admit.

“What does your book say about when I’ll go back to normal?”

“It doesn’t,” she says, “just how to help you recover from what you put your body through.”

Merlin makes a sound of disgust and Pym doesn’t blame him for his frustration. Going from being powerful to powerless is something she thinks would probably drive her mad and certainly has been a problem for the people she knows who have that kind of power. Even those like Merlin who have managed to to survive the rollercoaster.

“That’s disappointing,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees, “but we’ll help.”

“What makes you think you can?” Merlin asks.

Pym doesn’t have a good response for that even as he looks at her patiently, waiting for a reply. Her mind goes to the people fighting. There were other healers the last time, but most of them left to Avalon. It’s just her. For now. But now is all that matters. It’s her and the book and a position she has not earned nor feels capable of being in. She thinks anyone would be better suited to it. Even her Uncle who was more coward than healer. Anything remotely miraculous she’s done as a healer has been because of poor strikes or Lancelot’s ability to heal. She can’t say she’s particularly sure of either of those things being the case this time.

“I don’t,” she says, “but I’m the only healer you’ve got at the moment, and I may not be great but I’m better than no healer.”

“Let’s hope that’s true,” Merlin says.

“Hey—“ Squirrel starts.

“Stop,” she says, cutting him off, “he’s immortal, this is just more riddles,” she tells him, “he’s right, we need to hope what I’ve learned from the book is enough.”

She is amazed she gets them both out without Merlin mentioning the great city or what adventure Squirrel will one day go on. She doesn’t want to hear more about either of them. Now is what matters. The future is something to be worried about later. She keeps Squirrel close even as she wishes for a moment with her own thoughts. Unfortunately that isn’t what the world intends. She can sacrifice the selfish desire to keep him safe, as others are laying down their own lives to keep all of them safe.

“Don’t be worried,” Squirrel says, “Lancelot’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Pym says and it’s only partially a lie, “there’s others with him.”

“They’ll be fine too, he’s with them,” Squirrel points out.

Pym nods but the knot in her stomach doesn’t go away. Which is foolish because it has been hours and she’s waited for Raiders to come back before. They’re good fighters. But she thinks of the numbers in the camp and the ones riding to join them and it doesn’t make her feel any better.

That bad feeling doesn’t go away and the hours seem to creep by. It’s supposed to be longer than it actually is, though she’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad sign that it’s barely been a day before some return.

“There you are,” Guinevere snaps as she walks in. Like Pym has been hiding. Pym doesn’t cringe away as she walks over and sits herself on the table, “I’m an only child.”

“You know that’s supposed to be for someone injured,” Pym starts. Guinevere reaches for the lacing at the neck of her vest, curses and tries again. Pym feels her mouth go dry and moves forward, pulling out her knife, “where are you injured?”

“The scratch is superficial,” Guinevere says “ribs.”

Pym cuts through the lacing. Blood slicks her tunic but it’s not a lot, there’s just two scratches high on her ribs. But the smell is rancid and almost makes her gag. When she pulls away the fabric, she can see the scratches are pink and puffed, black is beginning to darken their edges.

“Is there another section for the poisoned?” Guinevere demands. Pym looks up at her, “don’t tell me, you’ve never dealt with it before.”

“I haven’t,” she says honestly, “but—“  
  
“Shut up and cut my ribs off,” Guinevere snaps.

She makes a noise of disgust and lays down as Pym grabs the book to find the answers, hoping that the poison’s been encountered before. Without Guinevere, this is all for nothing and she refuses to think about it. She begins to thumb through the book. She tells herself that Guinevere hasn’t gone paler in the few moments that she’s been here. It’s just not possible. She hears the door open and forces herself to read another page before she looks over.

He’s covered in mud, blood and she doesn’t want to guess what else. She wonders momentarily how many times Fey have escaped with their lives only to see him and realize how futile that escape was. She wonders if the Paladins now know what that feels like. If they even recognize him looking as he does. His eyes move from Guinevere to her.

“Are you hurt?” She asks.

“He can heal!” Guinevere snaps from the bed.

Lancelot shakes his head.

“Who did this?” Pym asks.

“Eydis,” he says, “but the poison was from a Trinity Guard.”

Pym nods, looking at the black lines on her skin. She turns another page in the book before setting it down and getting to her feet. There’s no point in looking there. Lancelot seems to be thinking along the same lines she is, though Pym is sure it’s no great leap if this is poison from the Trinity Guards.

“If you two are sneaking off again—“ Guinevere starts.

“Lay still and try to stay calm,” Pym orders, “I’m going to talk to Tristain.”

Guinevere groans but whether that’s because of the pain, her frustration or something else Pym can’t say. She has to be imagining the lines fanning out farther. But she’s not planning on wasting any time with it. She just hopes Tristain is feeling helpful or they have something else that she wants.

All of their futures may depend on it.


	23. Chapter 23

His only focus is on getting the antidote.

Dimly, Lancelot is aware of the others speaking, but his focus is on that thought. The same one that it’s been around since he was ordered to get her back here and get her help. Winning or losing this battle is ultimately not as important as Guinevere and her claim. She needs to be alive when they take Cumber out. She needs to take the throne. He’s pushed Goliath hard and the horse rose spectacularly to the occasion, they’ve beaten everyone else back and made it with Guinevere suffering nothing more than muscle spasms and the occasional tremor. That in itself should be miraculous. He thinks to tell Pym to stay there but if she hears the solution from Tristain then she can do it quicker. The less is lost in translation.

He opens the door to the cell. Her cooperation has bought her a longer chain between her cuffs, though it’s still iron and if she uses it to harm herself, it will be replaced with the shorter one or she’ll be killed. She has it laid on the floor and pushes her body up and down over it methodically, pausing when her elbows are bent and her collarbones are just above the links. She glances up when they arrive but doesn’t stop her movements. The familiar frustration that comes with people’s lack of fear is back, but it’s worse with the Trinity Guards. He’s always found them infuriating, almost as much as he used to long to be one.

“We need the antidote to your poisons,” he says.

She doesn’t reply.

He waits a moment longer before stepping into the cell.

She tucks her feet up and rolls into a standing position, faster than he would have expected for someone who spent the time she has without moving. But not as fast as she was the first night they met. Not that speed would make a difference in this case. She has the iron chain, but he is properly armed. Her eyes dart from the sword to his armor before meeting his face.

“The deal was that I’d cooperate,” she says, “not betray my people—“

  
“They are not your people,” he counters, “they would have come for you.”

“They would be my people if you hadn’t shown them the Fire,” she spits back, “coward.”

He ignores the jab. His focus is on getting the antidote, not dealing with Tristain’s jabs. Being a prisoner has not dampened her entitlement or her belief that she is fundamentally better than him. As a Guard she outranked him, but how she came to that rank he cannot say. He had been told the Pope would never allow a Fey in the Trinity Guard, but that was clearly never the case. He thinks of the few memories he has of the island and the Ash Folk.   
  
“Enough people have died for the Fire,” he says, “little ones—“

“You are proof that killing them was the right thing to do,” she snaps.

  
“Tristain,” Pym says her name and she rips her glare to look at her, “what do you want in return for it?”

“I am not for sale,” Tristain says.

“It’s not you,” Pym replies, “it’s the antidote to a poison that will save someone. That someone can help you. You chose to stay here,” she reminds her, “not go to Avalon.”

“Yes because he needs to die,” she says.

“Fine,” he replies. His life is forfeit if it means Guinevere lives and a new world is built. It’s a fair price.

“Not fine!” Pym cuts in, “why does he need to die? It won’t buy you back into the Guard.”

Tristain looks between the pair of them.

“You haven’t told her?” Pym looks curiously at him and at Tristain. He takes his eyes from the Guard to look at her blankly. He has no idea what Tristain is talking about. What secret he’s supposed to be keeping, “Ash Folk aren’t ruled by men,” she says, “I may not be a member of the Guard anymore, but I’m honor bound to kill you for revealing the Fire to outsiders.”

Lancelot thinks back to the few memories. He remembers an uncle who wanted to cut his throat, even though the man’s face is foggy at best. And in the mists he remembers crying out for people, but he cannot remember if they were women or men. If he thinks back even farther, to the faint voices that tell him what he knows of the Ash Folk, how important it is to keep their secrets, it’s a male voice who tells him first and a female voice that impresses the importance on him. Like Father would. He does remember the way Father looked at the place, but Lancelot thought his disgust was for the Fey Folk. Not for Fey Folk who let their women lead.

“They are not outsiders,” he says.

Tristain looks at him with complete disgust. The familiarity of the look is not lost on him. It was the way the others looked when he ran from the beach as the Paladins arrived. Unwilling to make the sacrifice they demanded of him. He knows he did the cowardly thing, that he was a coward then. Like he was a coward after Father cut him down and he never tried to escape again. But there is no mark on Tristain that says they tried to do the same to her. He remembers girls on the beach though, it wasn’t just boys who were killed. He ignores her jabs and disgust and focuses again on what truly matters.

“What do you want for the antidote?”

“Your life,” she says.

“Absolutely not.”

Lancelot doesn’t want to be frustrated with her, but he very much wishes she didn’t place so much importance on his life. Not in comparison to the person who will lead them. Who is leading them. He thinks she should understand, all things considered, that Guinevere is more important than him. But the look on her face is stubborn and out of the corner of his eye he sees Squirrel has snuck in with the blade that he gave him. Which he should have expected. But if Pym won’t allow him to trade his life, Squirrel will get in the middle of it and he’s armed the boy.

“What if I take you to the Priest?”

“I am not for sale!” Tristain says, outrage heavy in her voice, “the Ash Folk—“

“You don’t know the Ash Folk,” Squirrel says.

Suddenly Lancelot wishes the boy would just spit in her face.

“Everyone always says I’m too young for things and Lancelot was my age when the Paladins came. And you’re younger than he is, so you must have been very little when they came.”

Tristain’s eyes narrow and the anger seems to shift. Lancelot drops his hand to the sword in an unmistakable warning. He doesn’t doubt that she’s fast with the chain, but he is the one whose armed. He doubts she’s been in many fights without her fellow Guards and a tactical advantage. Her anger does let him see that Squirrel is probably right. She is younger than he is. The black marks on her face make it difficult to tell, but the truth is he hasn’t spent a lot of time around women or really around anyone whose age he needs to guess. There are little ones and then there is everyone else.

“I know the ways of the Ash Folk,” she says.

“From stories,” Squirrel says, “it’s okay, I’m only really going to know the Sky Folk from stories.”

“Not just from stories,” Tristain cuts in, “you don’t remember because you blocked it out. Like the traitor you are.”

He sees a flash of red and puts a hand out to stop Pym. They cannot afford her outrage at him being insulted. No more than they can afford for him to be upset. Her words are nothing compared to some of the things he has been called. And those words are just words. He knows of much worse.

“You cannot follow the Ash Folk ways and the ways of the Church,” he says.

“And how,” Tristain says, “would you know that?”

Lancelot has no retort because if he thinks about it, what he does know is eerily similar. Traitors being brutally punished, retribution for dissent. There’s a military aspect to both and when the thinks of it, the burning is also something they share. Better to be martyred than be a traitor. Somehow he sees that he’s chosen the latter with both, when given the choice.

“What happens to Ash Folk who are traitors? If they don’t get killed?” Pym asks. Tristain looks at her, “surely not everyone was killed.”

“You don’t run from the Fire,” Tristain says.

“That can’t be true,” Pym says, “my uncle ran from the Sky Folk,” she offers, “the High Summoner punished his family and said he couldn’t return, but she didn’t want to waste resources looking for him. And we had a lot more resources back then. But there was a procedure—“

“The Sky Folk knew nothing of war,” Tristain cuts in.

“That’s true,” Pym says, “so it’s only death?” Tristain nods, “how?”

“With Fire,” Tristain says.

There’s a moment of silence and then Lancelot moves forward, undoing the locks of her shackles. His fingers burn but he doesn’t care. If there is one way to kill a traitor and Tristain is determined to do it properly from stories she’s been told, then the answer is right here. He’s aware of Pym and Squirrel and he knows they mean well to protect him, but he needs their trust more than he needs the gesture.

“Stand back,” he says.

Miraculously they do.

He throws the shackles aside and drops down. It’s the first time in months she’s been without them and she can’t resist rubbing her wrists. Then she looks at him kneeling there, throat exposed. Her eyes drag to the sword but if she does that, she kills him as a Guard. He’d be dead either way, but he can see this is about something else. She glares down at him, the glare going more and more venomous. Her breathing becomes audible as her control slips. Finally she lets out a wordless sound and turns away angrily, burying her fist in the wall.

“Tell me how to save her and I’ll teach you.”

“I do not need lessons from a traitor!”

“You have no other choice,” he says.

He sees Pym relax. She looks livid but not terrified and he knows she’s caught on. Tristain may have stories of the ways of the Ash Folk. Maybe she grew up with her parents, maybe they escaped the island or hid her or handed her over to the Paladins. He doesn’t know. But if she only has stories and has kept the fanatical belief that the Fire is just for the Ash Folk, then she’s never used it. She may be able to heal and make it instinctively, but she needs the fuel. She doesn’t know how to make Fey Fire like he can. She can’t do it unaided or control it. And if she is determined to kill him in that particular way, then she needs to be trained. That gives them time.

“What does it look like?”

“Wait, no,” Pym cuts in. He turns to her and she ignores him, “this is a trade for lessons. It is not for you to kill him. Agreed?”

“Lessons and I get to keep those off,” she says, looking at the shackles.

“Until you can make the Fire. Then we talk about those. And you still need to behave or you don’t get to confess. The Priest remains locked up.”

Something shifts.

“You’re locking him up?” She asks. Lancelot nods, “lessons and the Priest is unlocked and free to move around,” she says. She looks at Pym, “I have your word?”

“The Priest will be allowed to move around and be unlocked,” Pym says, “you have my word.”

Tristain hesitates for only a moment and then nods. Lancelot doesn’t know why the thought makes him nervous. Either it’s the anger still on Pym’s face or it’s the concern about Bedivere being around the Fey. For his safety and for theirs. But he supposes Bedivere’s freedom is better than giving up his life.

“What does it look like?”

“Black lines, it smells rancid.”

The list she gives is long but the moment she says they’ll need Moon Wing silk, he knows that their next stop is Father Bedivere. He seems surprised when they open the door and Lancelot doesn’t understand how things can constantly surprise him. But he remembers him being like that even as a Paladin. His eyes drag over Lancelot and he mutters something like a prayer, making a blessing and reaching for his beads.

“I’m sorry,” Pym says, “Guinevere’s been poisoned and you’re the one person we know has Moon Wing silk.”

“You’re also free to leave,” Lancelot adds, “but we need those.”

“Oh, yes of course,” Bedivere kisses the beads and hands them over, “can I help?”

“Thank you—I’ll restring them too,” Pym says, taking off.

Lancelot motions him out. No-one tells him to leave so he follows them, back into the room. The other Raiders are around but they move immediately as Pym hurries forward. The doors open and everyone can see Guinevere sitting there with her top open, fingers clenched on the cot. She’s got her legs braced now as well, but there’s no hiding the tremors and spasms. She’s gotten paler too and Lancelot can see the black lines have spread farther along her skin. Kaze glances at Bors and then turns back to her.

“What did you give the Fey?” Guinevere questions.

“Lessons on how to use Fey Fire and Bedivere not being locked up,” Guinevere makes a sound of disgust, “she wanted Lancelot’s life.”

Guinevere whips her head over to him.

“She wants to kill me with Fey Fire.”

“Absolutely not,” Guinevere says, “where’s Arthur? Bring him back here.”

Pym glances at Kaze.

“Neither of them have very good beside manner,” She says, “Guinevere was just conscious.”

Pym sighs and nods before turning back to what she’s doing. Lancelot watches her work quickly. Thankfully the rest of the ingredients she seems to have. She uses her magic to undo the knots in the moon wings thread and carefully takes off the beads and adornments, putting them into her pocket. He notices she cuts off a small piece of the silk and slips it in there as well before adding the rest of it. Lancelot drags his eyes away as Arthur comes running in. His face falls at the sight of how much worse Guinevere looks.

“He is not allowed to sacrifice himself,” she says, turning away to wince before looking back at him. When she turns he can see the black lines feathering up her neck, “I don’t care how you keep him alive but he stays alive.”

“Can you—“ Pym starts and Guinevere rounds on her, looking very nearly insane.

“What else do you need?” Arthur asks quickly.

“We’re all ready. You just need to drink some of this and the rest goes on your wound.”

“If it kills me—“

“It won’t,” Arthur cuts in.

“Don’t interrupt me, if it does I want Cumber and that prisoner dead or I’ll haunt everyone in this damn room.”

Lancelot doesn’t know how he left her, even on her orders. Even when it came to logic. Lancelot is a faster rider with a better horse who knew the fastest way to get to where they needed to go. It made sense to shove him at her. But if he thinks of their positions being reversed, if it was Squirrel or Pym, he knows he would take the horse and ride himself. He watches as Arthur comes over and stands by her as Pym pours a part of it into the cup and hands it over. Guinevere’s hand shakes but Arthur helps her steady it as she takes it in one shot, coughing and gagging but ultimately keeping it down. Pym adds something to the rest of it and spreads it along her side, wrapping bandages there.

“Well?”

“I think we wait,” Pym says.

“I’m haunting you first,” Guinevere swears, wincing at another spasm, “is there anything you can do about these?”

“Oh, yes,” Pym says, “but nothing you should swallow.”

“How are you the only healer?” she groans as Pym grinds something and comes back over. She hands it to Arthur.

“Since I’m a shit healer,” she says.

Guinevere almost has a miraculous recovery but the opening is apparently all Arthur needs to dip his fingers in. He hesitates until Guinevere gives an angry nod of consent and goes back to glaring at Pym. Lancelot watches them as Guinevere pretends to ignore him and Arthur focuses on the task at hand. Only when more color starts to come back to her face does he relax fractionally. And even then just slightly.

“I think it’s working,” Pym says, “do you feel better?” Guinevere glares, “have your muscles stopped spamming?”

“Yes,” she says.

A cheer goes up among the Raiders. They slowly filter out to go clean up, giving several curious looks at Bedivere. The fight isn’t over by a long shot, but it seems as though Guinevere will survive this. It was close, there will be more close calls. Lancelot knows they will have to talk about her being out on the field if she is so much of a target.

But for the moment she’s alive and that’s enough.


	24. Chapter 24

Raiders and Fey drift in and out, talking about the fight.

Miraculously Guinevere is the only serious injury. The only one that needs tending to. The alliance between the Paladins, Guards and Cumber’s people should be terrifying. But they have seemingly no idea how to work together. Not when faced with a group who do. They also have no one like Gawain there. Mostly they cheer about Guinevere but they marvel at Lancelot, Arthur and Kaze who seem to have worked as a formidable team. Pym is relieved to hear all of it.

She’s also furious.

When she had told Lancelot she would like it if he came back, she didn’t think that she had to specify came back and stayed alive. Not came back and immediately tried to sacrifice himself at the first opportunity. It reminds her of the boat, when he had asked for death and then when he had seemed resigned to it. It made sense, he wanted it, his own life was meaningless—there were so many stupid reasons. Pym remembers the fear when Guinevere pressed the knife to his throat, even though some small part of her would have been relieved. That part was small then, it’s certainly gone now. It’s foolish because she should have known he would. That going back into battle like that would dig into the part of him that didn’t know how to value his own life.

She doesn’t know how to be supportive of him figuring out what he wants and angry that he seems to want to die still.

Which makes it wholly inconvenient that once she makes sure Guinevere is alright and steps out for some fresh air, he’s the person she runs into.

Naturally when everyone else has gone off to clean up, he’s ignored the dried mud and blood caked on him and gone to Goliath. She watches as he picks the horse’s hooves clean, inspecting the horseshoes. Goliath seems rather disinterested in the whole affair. Or perhaps its just the apple he’s more interested in as he turns his head to take the other piece Lancelot hands him without looking. Pym bites into her tongue to keep from demanding if Lancelot thought about him before he knelt in front of Tristain and offered his life in return for Guinevere’s. But she knows the answer. He sets the hoof down and straightens up, his eyes locking with hers.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt—“ she begins, ready to turn.

  
“You’re angry about what happened in the cell,” he say.

She resists the urge to tell him not to do that with her scent, but she knows it’s not something she’s hidden terribly well. He’s probably known since he ordered her to stay back.

“You were going to let her kill you,” she says, waiting for him to explain that he wasn’t.

“Yes,” he says. She stares at him. He returns the look with something cool and impassive on his face, though she can see the doubt creeping in. This feels as though she is dealing with another person. Another version of him, “if that was the price.”   
  
“How can you think that’s an acceptable price?” She questions, “Squirrel—“  
  
“I trusted you wouldn’t let him see,” he says.

Her mouth falls open.

Pym’s spent most of her life with he knowledge that her feeling are irrelevant beaten into her. By life, by others, carelessness is like a hammer and she’s metal that’s been folded and burned and tempered. She would have kept Squirrel from seeing it. They both know that. Like she’d keep Squirrel close and from running away. She would do all of it without a second thought. But she thinks of Gawain and Nimue sailing off, of Dof giving her the amulet that could have kept him alive, Nimue drowning herself. It all beats in her head as she stares at him and watches the cool warrior who kills without mercy further fall apart. She snaps her mouth shut and turns. Nothing good is going to come from having this conversation. He’s back safely and what he does with his life is up to him.

“You also would have looked away—“

“Do you really think that would have made anything better?” She cuts in, turning around, “you would still be gone,” he opens his mouth, “and don’t you dare say something about Squirrel. I’m not talking about him.”

She can’t imagine what losing Lancelot would do to him. Pym knows she can help him but it’s another thing he shouldn’t have to go through. Let alone because Lancelot thinks his life is not worth as much as Guinevere’s. Pym knows in her bones that is not the kind of world she is trying to build. No Raider is worth more than any other, she has never seen her act that way. And if she had any doubts, Guinevere demanding Arthur keep him alive erased them. But all of that means nothing if Lancelot still wants to get himself killed like that.

“I would be gone but you both would be safe,” he says.

“I don’t want to be safe at the expense of your life!” His face goes neutral and she knows that this is a new ground. She doesn’t know how to say what she wants while also impressing the importance of what he wants, “you’re a solider, I know that,” she says.

“If Guinevere dies this is for nothing.”

“That’s not true,” she says, “and she doesn’t think that either, you heard what she said to Arthur,” she clenches her fists and forces herself to release them. She can’t think about what other people want. She doesn’t want him to die or sacrifice himself, “I thought I was going to watch you die,” she says.

“It was a possibility.”

“How can you say that so calmly? Doesn’t your life mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean more than everyone’s safety. I’ve cost many their lives, they sacrificed them to keep everyone safe. Mine is not worth more than that.”

“Stop saying that,” she says.

“My life isn’t,” he stresses.

“It is to me!”

It’s a horrible, awful thing to say and the moment the words leave her mouth it feels like she’s falling down a well. She claps her hand over her mouth and thinks, hopes, she’ll be sick. Any reason to explain what she just said. But she knows the reason. It’s the same reason that she’s spent all day worrying and looking as if he’ll magically appear. The same reason the relief that she felt on seeing him changed so quickly when he agreed to die. Squirrel is right, it’s different. It’s not just that they are all friends. Lancelot looks confused at her and she lowers her hand, keeping her lips tight since she doesn’t fully trust her voice or what she might say next. Lancelot doesn’t speak and she’s not sure why it is suddenly harder to read him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “i am trying to respect what you want, I know that’s not something—“ she stops, not wanting to assume, “I can’t stand the thought you would sacrifice your life like you were going to for the antidote.”

“But you would be safe,” he stresses.

“I don’t want to be safe,” she retorts, “if I wanted that I would have gone to Avalon. I want to be here and alive. But I don’t want that if it means losing you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment and like in the beginning of their friendship, she expects him to walk away. But that isn’t him. He stands there silently, he gives her words weight. Even before she somehow fell into this role, he gave her words weight. More than anyone.

“I would choose your safety,” he says, “that’s more important,” something crosses his features and he steps forward, “I want you to be safe.”

“And I don’t want to be safe at the cost of your life.”

“We want different things then,” he says.

She swallows and wonders if the feeling of falling is ever going to stop. She doesn’t want to hear that they want different things. She doesn’t like that they are not on the same page. She’s gotten shockingly used to sharing the same wavelength with him. Though if she thinks about it, she should have seen it coming. She knew, even back in the beginning when he first showed up with Squirrel that it was Squirrel who got him out. That he would have laid there and died if Squirrel hadn’t dragged him to Goliath. She thinks of the martyrs his religion values and praises, she wonders how she could have expected that to be different.

“We do,” she says, “I don’t like it,” she adds.

“Nor do I,” he agrees.

She blows out a breath, at least they are on the same page about one thing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you and Goliath,” she says, “I’ll let you finish. I need to check on Guinevere anyway.”

She turns before he can stop her and hurries back inside. She’s accepted this role and no matter if she wants to stay out there and talk circles with him, she needs to check on her patient, the non Druid one. When she comes into the room, Guinevere is alive and looking well and snoring rather loudly. Arthur is sitting in a chair by her bedside. The snoring doesn’t seem to both him. Pym almost lets him stay that way, but the knowledge he will need to ride out tomorrow makes her touch his shoulder, startling him awake. He looks from Guinevere to her before giving a sheepish smile.

“You should probably go to sleep in a bed,” she says.

“I’ve slept in worse places,” Arthur says, “besides, I’d like to make sure she’s alright. While I can,” something in his gaze makes her stop, “please.”

“At least pull another chair over so you don’t bend your neck,” she says.

“Alright,” Arthur agrees to the compromise more easily than any patient she’s tended to before.

Squirrel is already asleep on the floor when she goes into her own room and settles on the bed. But she doesn’t sleep.

She listens as the door opens and Lancelot comes inside.

After a moment’s hesitation, he settles on the bed next to her.

She doesn’t know why she feels the strangest feeling like this is something that won’t last. Maybe Merlin was right and maybe they are destined to be separated. He will somehow be in that golden city and she will not. It makes all of it terrifying and bittersweet. And the idea of their earlier conversation hanging over them settles like dread in her stomach. Things are easier when they don’t look at each other sometimes but she rolls over none the less. Only to find that instead of their usual sleeping positions he’s turned towards her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him, “you’ve done so much to figure out what you want. It’s alright that we want different things.”

“We don’t,” he says, “we want the other alive.”

“Yes, but you’re in a much more dangerous position.”

“You have an injured Guinevere in the next room,” he points out. Pym resists the urge to smack him with the pillow, “we want the other alive,” he repeats.

“Yes but I want you here more than that,” she says.

“I cannot stay, I need to—“

“No, I know you need to go,” she says, “but—“ she makes herself stop. If he’s respected her choices she can do the same for his.

“I don’t want to die,” he says.

She looks for any sign he’s just telling her what she wants to hear but there’s none. He looks at her intently and she nods, trying to decide that she believes it. Does him not wanting to die make it any better if he prioritizes their safety over his own? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the answer to any of these things and she hates them all. It feels so heavy. She closes her eyes and tries not to think of Dof. She didn’t commit their last days together to memory, she couldn’t have known. She knows that he will fade from her mind eventually. The thought that Lancelot will do the same makes her feel sick. So she tries to commit everything to memory.

Right down to the callouses on the hand that he settles over hers.

They ride out in the morning and she continues to try and memorize everything, until she realizes she’s going to drive herself mad doing it. She’s so focused on remembering everything that it all feels like some kind of water color painting that’s blurred. So instead she tries to focus on being in the moment, but that too feels wrong. All of it feels wrong. It’s not until they are standing there watching everyone mount that she shakes off whatever stupor has settled over her.

“Give me the amulet,” she says. Squirrel grabs it off his neck. Pym looks at him desperately, “no sneaking off. No adventures. You have to give me your word on your honor as a Knight that you will be my shadow no matter what happens. Do I have it?”

“Yes,” Squirrel says. Pym looks at him a moment longer, “I swear it.”

She nods and takes the amulet. Lancelot sees her coming and stops. She holds the amulet up. He looks from it to Squirrel and then back to her, she can practically see the calculations going on in his head.

“Wear it,” she says, in the most authoritative tone she can manage, “we’ll be safe as long as you are.”

He’s shockingly flexible as he ducks down. She doesn’t know why her mouth goes dry but she puts the cord easily around his neck. He straightens up and nods at her, tucking it beneath his armor. Their eyes hold for a moment longer and though she feels the weight of it, there’s none of the heat that seems to accompany them. They just look at each other. As though trying to commit the other to memory. Then he nods and turns Goliath with the others. When his eyes leave her it feels as though something deep in her chest splits, as though some part of her stays on Goliath with him.

And she can do nothing but watch them ride away.

It feels as though she blinks and hours have passed. She’s inside, but she can’t remember the past few hours for some reason. It stops mattering when she hears the sound of hooves. It’s earlier than last time, it’s too early. Instead of relief, it’s horror that fills her. Maybe some part of her knows even as she runs to the door, even as she waits to feel like a fool for being so worried. For making such a fuss. There are fewer riders who come back. She immediately sees the absence of Raiders she’s familiar with. But she clings to the hope that there’s an explanation to this. Even when she doesn’t see him.

Even when she sees Goliath.

“Pym.”

She whips around to see Arthur. He looks so much worse. He leans heavily on Gawain who looks equally spent. Pym tries to push herself into healer mode but she can’t. They all seem to know. She wants to apologize but she can’t seem to do that either. Arthur looks at her homelessness and then she sees what he’s holding.

It’s the swords.

She doesn’t know why her hands shake as she takes them. Why they are here at all.

“They were waiting for him,” Kaze says, “he threw them away when he realized he couldn’t fight them all, he surrendered,” a heavy look appears on her features, “they took him alive.”

Something goes off like a firework in her chest.

“He’s alive?”

Kaze nods.

“We went after them but they rode for the coast,” Arthur says, “taster than I’ve seen. They knew where they wanted to go,” he winces, “we couldn’t make it there in time.”

Her fingers grip the scabbards. Lancelot is alive, he has the amulet, but he’s been captured and he is on a ship. With the people who took him when he was a boy. He hates ships. She swallows against the sudden lump in her throat.

“Where—“

“We don’t know, perhaps Guinevere may have an idea—“

“The Vatican.”

They all turn to see Bedivere standing there. That old look is on his face, the one seems to wear when his past is brought up. When he looks at Lancelot. Bedivere walks forward, looking heavily at the swords and then back at them.

“They’ll take him to the Vatican to be tried as a traitor,” he says, “to make sure no-one tries something similar,” he looks down, “it won’t be a quick or easy death.”

Pym looks at the others and sees that they don’t have any intention of letting there be a death at all. Lancelot still has the amulet. He’s still alive. And if his death is to be a spectacle than all he has to do is hold on until they get there. Pym grips the blades and looks past them to Goliath. Squirrel has silently gone over to him. There’s something closed off on his face as he catches the horse’s reins and Pym can see him putting his emotions aside. She forces herself to do the same. She pushes herself to not panic. The only thing she can do in the moment is help Arthur.

“Let’s get you inside so I can fix what happened,” she says.

“I’ll watch the boy,” Kaze tells her.

Pym nods and looks at Bedivere.

“We’re going to get him back,” she says, “and he’s going to hold on until we do.”


	25. Chapter 25

He drifts.

Dimly he’s aware that they have him drugged. Not poisoned, but drugged. And though he seems to be aware of something going around, he’s mostly aware of the iron net they have suspended around him. His finger throbs from where he touched it and now he stays still. If he tries to burn his way out, the net may close around him and he‘ll die from the iron burns. He promised. He promised he was not going to forfeit his life so he drifts and tries to conserve his strength. Gather as much information as he can.

It’s hard to focus on the voices though.

He forgets that though Father is dead, his work is not. For all they are afraid to touch him, the Paladins know his body better than most. They know how to contain him, how to keep him suspended in his own thoughts like this. Even if his mind is strong, there are weaknesses that his body cannot overcome. So he focuses where he can and drifts where he cannot. He listens to them speak over one another, arguing amongst themselves. He doesn’t struggle when they force the concoctions down his throat and that saves him some minor injuries. Mostly though it doesn’t infuriate anyone. It doesn’t risk him getting stabbed or killed.

He needs to stay alive.

He promised he wouldn’t forfeit his life.

When he drifts past the point of recognition he focuses on the memory of everyone’s scent. He’s always had the mental catalogue of the ones he’s tracked, the ones he’s killed and the ones he’s let go. Now he has the scents of those he values, those who value him. It’s never a relationship he thought he would have with the Fey but he clings to them as he floats and drifts in his own mind. It feels like the first time he was on a boat. Or the first time he can remember. He thinks he should be afraid. He remembers Pym pinching the webbing of his fingers and behind his ears and making the nausea go away. Even if the fear lingered. His hands are too heavy though and the net prevents him from moving them.

So he focuses instead on the memory of her scent.

He catalogues everyones but hers has become one that immediately grounds him. If he focuses on that scent, he knows it will lead him where he needs to go. Of course at the moment there is nowhere to go, but it leads him to a calmer corner of his mind. He can linger there as he floats and try to direct his mind to the safer place. It’s strange, he used to sustain himself with reaching desperately for something that never spoke to him. Something he never felt. Now when he conjures up images of peace, of what safety looks like, they come readily. Easily. Not the kind of safety that Father gave him but the kind that accepts, the kind that reciprocates without asking or wanting much in return.

They didn’t want different things.

They wanted to be safe and together, he just prized safety more and she prized being together. Unsafe. He’s not foolish to think he could make the world safe, but safer—surely he could manage that. He is a blade after all, a tool that makes things better. But he is more than that. A blade doesn’t want, it doesn’t ache, it doesn’t dream of a warm weight on its shoulder and steady breathing as it learns to pray again. Those are the desires of a man. He’s not sure he’s ever had things like that. Not in the way that he understands them now.

“Thought there’d be more fire,” someone says above him, “why’s he cooperating?”

“Drugs and guilt,” comes the reply, “Carden said he would always come back.”

He didn’t come back, but he bites the words. The weaker they think he is, the better. But he reminds himself that he didn’t come back. He surrendered because it was his only option. The few Raiders who died made it clear there was no saving everyone by fighting. But he could stay alive by surrendering. He was too valuable to be killed quickly. The pageantry of it required he survive and he made an example of in the most gaudy way possible. He never cared about the pageantry of it. It was fitting that the first time he felt anything like God, he was in a small church with nothing bright or bold or ostentatious. But he didn’t come back.

He forged his own road.

Lancelot reminds himself of that. If the Road Father spoke of was forged in his blood and the breaking of his skin, this is forged in the evergreen of Pym’s scent and the flashes of Squirrel that constantly seem to appear even when they are not wanted. Maybe especially when they aren’t. He half expects the boy to pop out and he prays that he doesn’t. He needs to trust Pym to keep him safe. They took his armor, but he can feel the amulet. His trousers have always had odd pockets sewn into the lining and the fact that they do not want to touch him plays into that advantage. Squirrel will start fighting soon and he’ll need the amulet. Lancelot knows he needs to hold on to give it back to him. Pym believes in the amulet and he cannot be the reason she looses her faith in it.

So he has to hold on.

So he does.

He isn’t patient, he never has been. He can pursue but even tracking that takes too long starts to grate at him. Waiting like this is torturous and he knows the torture hasn’t even started. But even so he can admit that thinking he can escape is folly. Not with the iron that restrains his Fire, not with the drugged twilight they keep him suspended in. He has to hold on and wait. He has to trust. Trust that they will figure out how to get to him, that they can help enough so he can act. Until then he needs to stay as alive and as strong as possible.

He has a new appreciation for Tristain’s compliance. For her willingness to do what she can to keep her strength and wait. For what, he can’t say. To kill him maybe? Or maybe she still has the blind hope that they will come for her. They won’t. It is his fault for breaking the secret and exposing the Fire. He would do it again to keep them safe but the consequences aren’t one he anticipated. He never thought there would be another Ash Fey. One he was unaware of. He had always been told the Guard, the Priesthood, all of it was out of his reach because of being a Fey. Now he thinks it was probably just Father wanting to keep him close.

“Keep the net close, if he tries to move you know what to do.”

He tenses and then forces himself to go slack as they shift him upright. The iron next is close enough that he can feel the warmth it forces from his skin. It’s familiar, in a sick way. He remembers now that Brother Salt would favor iron with him, in the early days when they needed to break him into harming himself. He tries to ready himself for the pain but his muscles don’t respond as they should.

He’s not expecting the hands in his hair.

An odd bolt of panic spikes through him but he shoves it aside. Hair grows back. His will grow back. They shear a good measure of it off and then pull it taut from the crown. He feels the hair pull away and the air on his scalp.

“It’s gone,” one says.

“I have eyes,” the other snaps and he hears the fire being stoked, “no matter we’ll just say we freshened it up since he forgot.”

There’s a chuckle and a long sickening wait. Now is not his chance, he needs to stay pliant. Surprise will be crucial and if they think he’s truly unconscious, they won’t increase the dosage. He hears the brand being extracted and his face is shoved into the rough wool of the other Paladin’s robes. His hands clap around his ears and pull his hair back. The other mutters a blessing because somehow that matters and then presses the brand to his flesh.

It takes everything in him to remain slack.

It hurts.

He’s gotten used to not having constant pain but even if he had he’s sure this would hurt. His flesh bubbles and cooks as the cross burns into his new tonsure. The smell of his own flesh hangs in the air as the brand is pulled back and shoved into a bucked of cold water. He can’t help the hitch in his breathing but he forces himself to be as slack as possible as they shove him back and examine whether or not the branding was enough to awaken him.

“Keep his hair away from it,” one says, “they want him alive.”

Even that hurts but he ignores it as they jerk him about. It’s agony when they yank his shirt off, but it’s nothing compared to when they put a hairshirt back on him. His back is healed, the chafing is minor. What he fights is what they are doing. He feels the next layer and then the doublet. They even put his cloak on him and drag the hood up. It stings horribly against his freshly burnt scalp. He feels something being forced down his throat and ignores the loss of identity to focus on keeping whatever he can with his wits. But it’s very hard as the concoction flows through him.

When he becomes aware again he realizes why.

He’s in a narrow box. It’s unbearably hot on his face and hands, the only exposed skin he has. The box is iron. Did Father know? Was this to always be his fate? He planned for it, they are too well prepared and know how to contain him in ways he never would have expected. Only someone like Father could have planned this. The boxes and nets are too well fitted for him, this is Father’s doing. It takes everything to slit his eyes open. The net is on top of the box and through it he can see the blue sky. He’s rocking but not because of the boat, because they are moving him. He doesn’t close his eyes fast enough and Abbott Wicklow catches his eye.

“Hello, Brother,” he says, “you are here to be cleansed of your Sin.”

The arrow he hit the Abbott with has split his cheek. The wound is infected and Lancelot takes a savage joy in it. Abbott Wicklow cocks his head to the side, looking like some kind of ridiculous bird. He leans closer.

“Did you hear me?”

Lancelot knows he’s trying to stay alive. His identity has been stripped away and he has no idea how anyone will help him. If it’s even possible. They cannot take on the Church with the resources they have, let alone the Church, Cumber and Uther. He can hold on and hope, but if they are moving him it’s a hopeless thing. Cumber burned their ships. He looks up at Abbott Wicklow through the net that Father engineered to keep him contained. Father always expected him to be silent. He remembers arguing for Squirrel and being slapped. But Abbott Wicklow is waiting on a response. It takes an incredible effort to breathe in enough air to make his vocal chords work.

“I’ll pray,” he says, “for God to have mercy,” he has to force the last bit out, “on your soul.”

Anger colors Abbott Wicklow’s face and a moment later the net is ripped back.

Pain explodes across his face before something bitter is shoved down his throat. It mixes with his blood and it burns horribly for a moment.

And then everything goes black.


	26. Chapter 26

“What do you mean ‘he surrendered?! Why the hell did no-one stop him?!”

Pym winces as Guinevere chucks the nearest thing she can find against the wall. The ring of metal will have to do for an answer. Though she was half dead yesterday, she is healed enough today to stalk over to Bedivere, seize him by the cloak and drag him over to the map. For good measure she slams her knife in between his fingers.

“You tell us how to get him back or I take the other hand,” she spits at him, “and I start with your knuckles.”

“Guinevere.”

She whips around at the sound of Arthur’s weary voice. His ankle and shoulder are badly sprained, but the weariness is from a different kind of injury. One that Pym understands much better than she ever thought she would have to. The look Guinevere gives him could make a weaker man fall apart, but Arthur just looks at her. Like water flowing over a stone, eventually the stone splits. Guinevere pulls her knife free.

“How do we get him back?”

Bedivere looks over the map.

“This is the fastest way I know,” Bedivere says. “they cross here and move on horseback. There is probably one cart for the box—“

“What box?” Pym cuts in.

Bedivere lowers his head. A chill races down Pym’s spine. But she can hold it off, hold onto some kind of naive hope that this doesn’t mean what she thinks it must.

“There were contingencies,” he says, “if Lancelot were to leave. Father Carden observed him for years. He knows more about the Fey than any of us,” he looks at them, “the Paladins travel with iron nets and an iron box. If Lancelot were to disobey, he was to be put in the box and contained. They probably have him in it now.”

The air seems to leave the room.

Pym thinks of the deep burns on his wrists, of the burns she had before Nimue healed her. The idea of them traveling with a box like that, waiting for him to betray them when he believed so much, it makes her head spin. She thinks of him trapped in an iron box on a boat and it physically aches. Even though she has no doubt he’s fine and not giving them any quarter, it still makes her sick to think about. And the distance between them is only growing.

“I didn’t see any nets,” Arthur says.

“If he went willingly, they wouldn’t need them,” Bedivere says, glancing at her, “they won’t put him in the box bare skinned,” he says, “if he doesn’t struggle, they’ll only use it to keep him contained so he won’t fight.”

Pym knows he’s not going to struggle. She made a big deal about him coming back alive, about the value of his life. Maybe he doesn’t fully believe it yet, but she knows he’ll listen to her. He’s good at following orders. And she’s ordered him to stay alive. She should feel relieved but the guilt hits her instead. Could he have made it out if she had chosen her words differently? Is being taken and shut in an iron box worse than death? She has to put the guilt aside to focus on the problem at hand.

“How do we get him?” She asks.

“Do you have a ship?” Bedivere asks, “coin? An army?” No-one says anything and he hesitates, trying not to let his face fall, “what do you have in the way of resources?”

“Not enough to take them on,” Guinevere admits, “not directly anyway.”

Pym feels her heart start to pick up. They don’t have the resources. They don’t have the resources to take on one group, let alone as many are here. And especially not if they go to the Vatican. She’s heard horrible stories of where the Church is based. She’s never heard of a Fey making it out of there alive. Or of being there at all. And Lancelot is being taken there in an iron box while they all sit there helpless. No-one voices any other ideas and, feeling nauseous, she stands up.

“Sorry, I need some air,” she says.

She doesn’t.

But she can’t get to what she needs. He’s in an iron box being taken to a place they have no way of getting to. No-one tries to stop her as she makes her way outside. It’s a horrible feeling. She feels like she did when Nimue said she couldn’t heal Dof. That helpless, sickening feeling. It’s that drowning feeling she was terrified of, but now she truly feels alone. She didn’t realize how much safer it was before. She feels like a fool for not seeing it. She’s so accustom to seeing Lancelot slipping out of the corner of her eye or appearing near her that it feels wrong he isn’t doing just that. After all the time she wasted avoiding him, it’s clear that he was never as far as she thought. She was just so used to his presence it didn’t even register sometimes. Now that he’s gone she’s painfully aware of it.

They have to get him back.

He’s done so many insane, miraculous things for them. Surely they can do one thing for him. She doesn’t dare pray, Pym remembers praying for Nimue and for Dof, for her parents—all of those prayers were unanswered. So she stopped praying to the Hidden. But Lancelot learned to pray again. How, Pym has no idea, but the image of the peace on his face as he did was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that Nimue was when she spoke to the Hidden. But Nimue and the Hidden scared her in a way that watching Lancelot no longer did. Maybe because she understood his God in a way that the Hidden still seemed removed from. Even though the book helps, having someone there to explain it helps more.

She hears the quiet voices in the barn and knows that she should give them privacy but she can hear Squirrel sniffling. Immediately she feels like a fool, even if she knows that prioritizing the injured was the right thing to do. Squirrel is sniffling but he’s not alone. But it’s not Kaze whose with him, much to her surprise.

“He would be lucky to have you there, but he would also be afraid. As I was when I saw you,” Gawain says. Pym is surprised at how much his voice sounds like it did when he was alive, “he would want you safe.”

“But I could help!” Squirrel pleads, “I can save him even if I couldn’t save you.”

“You have saved him,” Gawain says, “in every way that matters. Whether or not he survives this.”

She peers around the corner to see Gawain is on a bent knee in front of Squirrel. He looks young, heartbreakingly young. And so much like the child he is. She watches as he rubs his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the tears from flowing. Even though Gawain is more vine than man, the green that makes him up now is almost golden in the lamp light. As though it’s trying to imitate skin. Maybe it is, maybe this is beyond things like life and death.

“But I’m supposed to protect him.”

“You have,” Gawain stresses, “he could not ask for a better Knight to have shown him the way.”

“You only Knighted me because you were about to die,” Squirrel chokes out, “we can say so.”

“Percival,” Gawain says and for once a Squirrel doesn’t buck at his name. Or maybe it’s because his hero worship of Gawain has always let the Green Knight get away with things others couldn’t, “I Knighted you early because I was going to die,” he agrees, “but if i had survived, one day I would have Knighted you all the same.”

Squirrel sniffles and looks at him. Gawain smiles in a soft way that Pym’s only seen a handful of times, mostly when they were all much younger.

“I was lucky to be your Knight for the short time I was,” Gawain says, “just as you are lucky to be his Knight for however long you have the honor.”

“He was mine,” Squirrel sobs out and Gawain moves forward, enveloping him in a hug.

It hurts to hear it acknowledged, though it’s something they are all aware of. Lancelot has taught him so much, saved him from so much. But in his own way Squirrel has done that for him. Maybe they are both able to save each other and teach each other. It’s not conventional but nothing is in their world anymore. Maybe it’s right that in some odd way they are both each other’s Knights. Pym slips away from the exchange with a heavy heart, wondering how on earth Lancelot will get the chance to hear those things. If he’s even alive to hear them right now.

He has to be.

She refuses to let her mind wander along that what if. She ordered him not to give up his life and if there is one thing she has faith in, it’s his ability to follow an order. No matter how much she’s tried to make him see he doesn’t always have to. She’s glad that it’s not something he’s accepted just yet. She can deal with the guilt of it later. Right now she’s just glad to cling to the hope that he’s following her orders and holding on until they can figure out how to save him. From people they have no chance of taking head on. It’s overwhelmingly hopeless.

So she doesn’t understand why there’s cheering.

They can’t possibly be celebrating him being taken, he’s one of them. Even with his mistakes. She swiped at her cheeks and follows the sound. It’s actually coming from inside the church. She follows it into the room where they’re keeping Tristain. There’s a crowd of Raiders who are making the noise. She’s become skilled at moving in between them to get where she needs to go. She worms her way forward until she gets to the front and nearly collides face first with Tristain.

The Fey gives her an absolutely wicked look before she spins around. Kaze easily steps over her strike and Tristain rolls from the return blow. Pym stares. There’s no weapons between them. She’s seen Kaze and Lancelot spar but what’s happening is a lot closer to the first fight Tristain and Lancelot had. Tristain is breathing hard but she’s more than holding her own. They’re both banged up but Kaze moves back and forth like someone who knows what they are fighting for. Tristain moves forward and though she lands a blow, Kaze drops her to the dirt, yanks her up and pulls her neck to the side.

“Yield or it’s mine!” Kaze snarls, “and you can explain to your God why you were arrogant enough to destroy his creations.”

“Fine, I yield!”

Kaze lets her go and to Pym’s amazement, when Tristain gets to her feet she doesn’t immediately attack Kaze. Or anyone. Pym looks around and sees the Raiders seem to have a healthy level of respect and fear for both of them. But it’s the look on Tristain’s face that makes her truly surprised. There’s no disgust or the way she looks at Lancelot. Just respect. It’s grudging but it’s there. Pym pushes the final bit forward and looks at both of them, though if she wants an explanation or to make sure they’re alright, she’s not sure. Probably both.

“We’re fine,” Kaze says before Pym can ask. Tristain nods, “she’s going to tell us what we need to do.”

“Just like that?” Pym demands.

The two of them exchange looks and it’s clear Pym is missing something.

“Show’s over,” Kaze says to the Raiders who go off grumbling, “the rules are different with Folk like ours,” she says motioning to Tristain, “we’re equals,” she says, motioning to the three of them.

“She’s the High Summoner,” Tristain corrects.

“What?” Pym says, trying to keep up.

Tristain and Kaze trade looks.

“Men don’t get to order women around in our Folk,” Kaze says, “we fought as equals. And because I won, she will help us until she challenges me again to take over.”

Pym stares at them and the impossibly simplistic solution. Though if she thinks about it, Tristain has been more forthcoming with her than with Lancelot. She’s exchanged things for a far lower price. Pym isn’t a fighter. The Sky Folk have a High Summoner but she’s not the ruler in the way that Guinevere is. And though Tristain seems disgusted with her Fey nature, she seems to hold an odd respect and fascination with it as well.

“Give me your wrist,” Kaze orders. Tristain looks disgusted but she does, letting herself be shackled again.

“This isn’t necessary,” she says.

“I’ll be the judge of that for now,” Kaze replies, leading her out of the cell and to where the others are trying to figure things out. They all look surprised as Kaze brings her over to the map, “how do we get him?”

“You can’t,” she says, “I’ve been with yo for months. You have nothing. They’ll take you and kill you without a second thought. I’d pray for his soul.”

Everyone is quiet and Pym feels sick until Arthur’s voice breaks.

“Yes!” They all turn to him, “you said it was going to be a big deal to execute him, well they’re going to want an audience. If we can’t face them head on, we can sneak in,” they all look at him blankly, “we’ll pretend to be pilgrims.”

The idea is insane but for the first time the despair in Pym’s heart jerks with something like hope. They could sneak in. Sneaking in has worked in the past. How they get Lancelot and how they get him out, that’s anyone’s guess. But they can figure that out. They have to get to him before they worry about anything else. Tristain scoffs and Kaze glares at her.

“They know what you look like,” Tristain points out.

“You can help tell us what they’re looking for,” Kaze says.

“Regardless, none of you know the first thing about Catholicism. Not enough to pose convincingly.”

“I do,” Pym says. They all turn to look at her, “I was trying to get Lancelot to talk when we first met. That seemed the easiest way,” she curls he fingers in her skirts, “I have his prayer beads too.”

“Well that’s one,” Tristain snaps.

“I know enough,” Arthur says, “we can say I’m praying for a miraculous healing.”

“I can help as well,” Bedivere says, “I want to help.”

“So then we just need a ship,” Arthur says with a tight smile.

“You leave the ship getting to us,” Guinevere says nodding at her Raiders.

It’s the beginnings of a plan. One that’s going to involve stealing and murder. But somehow both of those things are acceptable at the moment. If they mean getting him back. She has to fix the beads though. Both of them. She walks over to Guinevere who looks at her almost warily. Pym tries to show she’s not going to go to pieces.

“Do you have anything with red silk?” She asks.

“Why the hell would I have that?” Guinevere questions. Pym motions to the borrowed clothes she’s wearing, “ridiculous, come on,” Guinevere says, leading her over to her room. A moment later a coat of bright red is thrown in her direction, “will that do?”

“I might ruin the embroider—“

“If it keeps you from going to pieces and helps us get him back you can eat it for all I care,” she says, grabbing the jacket and putting it in Pym’s arms , “here and don’t say a word.”

She smacks the box on top and closes the door.

Pym takes the things back to the room and opens the box. Inside are bright needles tipped in gold, small hinged blades, things that are used to sew fine things. Pym spreads apart the jacket and uses her magic to pull apart the long embroidery thread, winding it together to make the kind of chord she needs. She spreads out the beads and carefully sets to work on stringing them back together.

As she does she thinks about all the times Lancelot must have held them and prayed. Or tried to reach God. How when he seemed able to, it was without the beads but with his own self worth and comfort. She knows the beads are warm from her own pocket, but she wants desperately to pretend they are warm from his hands. Which is such a foolish foolish thing to want. She knows better. Surely she must know better. The needle pricks her finger and she looks down and realizes that she’s dripped tears and stained blood on them. Hastily she tries to wipe them off but it’s hopeless.

“Can I help?” She hears Bedivere’s voice inquire and she shakes her head.

“No, I—“ she refuses to fall apart, “I do more work with my magic, but it seemed disrespectful to do it with these,” she confesses, looking up at him, “I think I’ve ruined it.”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” he says, “blood and tears are sacred things,” he closes her fingers around them, “you show a lot of respect to it.”

“It’s important,” she says. Bedivere nods, “I told him to stay alive,” she says, “I think he surrendered because of me instead of fighting.”

“If he did, you saved his life,” Bedivere tells her. She nods miserably and shakes her head, wiping under her eyes and turning back to the beads. Bedivere’s presence isn’t entirely unwelcome as she finishes the last knot and clips the chord. She turns to his beads, “before you do that,” he says, “may I show you how we use these?”

Pym realizes that they will need to know if they are going to sneak in and nods, wiping uselessly under her eyes. Bedivere smiles and looks at her.

The beads aren’t hers but he waits until she nods to pick them up and start to show her how they are used to pray.


	27. Chapter 27

“Good morning.”

Lancelot realizes he’s upright.

He’s on a chair and his head is tucked to his chin. His neck is sore, to the point where he can’t just push the pain away. He’s been re-branded, he remembers. Immediately when he focuses he can feel the amulet. If nothing else it gives him something to focus on as he raises his head. Abbott Wicklow is standing in front of him. Being seated gives him some advantage in height and he seems to be enjoying it far too much.

“Do you know where we are?” He asks. Lancelot looks at him blankly, “take a deep breath. Do you smell that?”

He does and wishes it was not because he was told. He smells the ocean first, but he would know they were on the coast even without the smell. He can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Violently. And close. He’s surprised at how quickly the thoughts come. His mouth is dry and his head is throbbing, but he realizes that he’s not as fogged as he was. They haven’t drugged him like before. Though he momentarily thinks of running, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance with this many around him and Abbott Wicklow’s smug look.

“I thought your nose was legendary, the thing that kept you alive all these years. Smell again.”

He does.

But it’s mostly the ocean again. Abbott Wicklow looks at him for a moment longer and then makes a sound of disgust. He signals and arms grip his, hauling him to his feet. The ground is wildly uneven and though the drugs aren’t in his system to the same degree, his legs ache viciously from not moving for however long they’ve hand him. He manages to keep the twist of his ankle from being truly crippling, but the joint strikes a stone and it sends pain lacing up his leg. Abbott Wicklow leaves first and they follow him.

Outside the smell is even sharper and the air smacks across his face. His knees buckle and they haul him up but he knows where they are. He’s known from the moment he breathed in the air, though his mind wouldn’t let him think it. It couldn’t. Or maybe it didn’t want to acknowledge anything. It’s clearer, there’s no smoke or steam or anything that obscures his vision. And the stones aren’t black like he remembers, except where the water laps at them.

They’re on the beach from his memories.

They’re on the island.

Abbott Wicklow looks at him smugly as he struggles to get his feet under him. He half thought he dreamed the place up. But here it is, spread before him. The smooth stoned beach, the path that leads up to where the village used to be. He can see the ruins of it. Most of it is gone thanks to the elements and what the Paladins did. But he can pick out the stones. He’s dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the things that linger in his system. Abbott Wicklow looks at him smugly.

“Father Carden wrote about this place,” he says, “he theorized that your sense of smell would make you remember the things you had blocked out. He would be glad to know he was right, if your kind hadn’t murdered him.”

Panic hits him blindly.

He has to get off this island.

The longer he stands there the more he can smell the dead Ash Folk that are mixed with the dirt. They are everywhere. He can smell his kin, others that are familiar—if he thinks about it he can smell the blood that lingers in the dirt on the path. The blood that hasn’t been washed away as it was beaten into the ground by the Paladins or caught in the ash of the others. He feels like a child suddenly, realizing desperately that he doesn’t want to die. Not for a secret. No matter how his uncle tells him it will be over quickly.

No matter how steady his father’s hand is on his shoulder.

It breaks free when he runs, shoving them out of the way. He can hear them calling for him but he’s running across the stones and the dirt, just trying to put as much distance as he can between them. He didn’t stop running until he saw Father. And though he was an enemy, Father still grabbed him. Still saved him from the men who were trying to kill him. He remembers the look in their eyes as they saw him with the Paladins. How utterly defeated they seemed. Even as they were lead away to their deaths and he to his new life.

Maybe they all died that day.

No, he corrects himself, he survived. He survived all of it. Like he is going to survive whatever is coming next. They are on this island to torture him, but if they are on this island that is buying everyone else more time. He has to stay in the present and not get lost in the ghosts of what used to be. Everyone on this island is dead or they are sulking in a church plotting to try and kill him. There is nothing here from the past that can hurt him. He struggles to his feet but they force him back to his knees.

“You can’t run,” Abbott Wicklow says. Lancelot stays silent, “maybe you are like a dog,” he continues, “can I command you to speak?” He smirks and leans closer, “do you know what I do to dogs who disobey?”

With how dry his mouth is, Lancelot doesn’t know where he gets the spit from.

Abbott Wicklow reels backwards and Lancelot understands why Squirrel does it. It’s worth it when they slam the air from his lungs and shove his face into the stones. He can hear Abbott Wicklow cursing. It’s a stupid thing to do, but the satisfaction of it makes it worthwhile. They haul him up from the stones and barely let him get his feet underneath himself before they are dragging him towards the village. He needs to stay alive but the more he can slow them down, the better chance the others will have.

It’s still terrifying to go into the village.

He doesn’t regret annoying him, Abbott Wicklow isn’t stupid enough to disobey whoever has given the order to take him wherever they are taking him. But he isn’t smart enough to recognize Lancelot is slowing him down. He focused on that. No matter what he had become, he has spent most of life following orders. Ignoring everything else. Every doubt, every misgiving, every distraction. Being surrounded by Paladins who hate him is nothing new. He can ignore that as well. And he has orders, he is to stay alive and he is to return. Even more importantly, he has to give the amulet back. He can focus on that and only let the most important things in.

As he walks through the village he’s struck by how things make more sense as he half remembers things. It’s like a sketching being filled in with color. The wide circles with their deep pits used to hold Fire. More Fire than the shallow circles in the cracks of the rubble. Their houses were round. The pit was always the center and everything else was wedged from there. The pits outside were for the fueled Fire, the pits inside were for the Fire that his mother would make to start the new day. He cannot see her face or remember anything else, but he remembers her smiling when she would see he was awake and winking as she touched her fingers to the center pit.

He uses the weight of the amulet to ground himself in the present. To recognize these are memories. His fingers ache to grab it but he refuses to give into the urge. They pull him to one of the houses and kick him through, once again he finds himself with his face shoved into the stone. There’s a chip in it that flickers brightly even in the dim light, it’s got glass embed in it. He isn’t sure how he knows that, but he knows it. The same way he knows his mother used to wink and smile at him. His stomach tightens and he forces his mind to the amulet pressing into his thigh. To the slight, petty satisfaction that he gets from the anger on Wicklow’s face.

“Do you remember that they tried to kill you?” Abbott Wicklow says.

Lancelot forces himself to be silent.

“Not where they found the other bodies, they tried to drag you in. Father Carden saved your life. And you betray him by going back to the very people who would see you dead.”

He feels sick. He wants to say that they are lying, but he remembers the feel of hands on his. Screams of his name. He remembers that’s how Father found it out. They had screamed for him as they burned. Not with Fey Fire but with regular fire. They burned slowly and horribly. Logically he knows that there is nothing but the finest ash left of them after the decades. That it’s been swept away. But emotionally something tears viciously in him at the thought that the grime on his cheek is the bones of a family member. He isn’t sure if he feels sorrow, anger or some combination of the two. Or maybe it’s just every emotion. He battles for control of himself as they haul him up. The dirt on his cheek feels like it might drive him mad.

“Are you speechless again, Lancelot?” He asks.

It’s hardest to hear his name on Abbott Wicklows lips. He turns his face into the hood as he has countless times before, but they allow him no such luxury. They rip it back and someone yanks his head up by the scalp. He’s good at staying silent but the new burn stings viciously. Abbott Wicklow looks him in the eye and seems almost satisfied as Lancelot feels his water as his scalp stings.

“I’m sure you’ve figured out by now we need to keep you alive,” he says and Lancelot feels the chains on his hands being undone. He could kill them all right now, without another thought, “but if you disobey we are allowed to kill you. I’m sure your traitorous friends are mounting some kind of rescue effort. It will fail, the question is if you remain alive long enough to see it,” he glances at Lancelot’s hands, “do you want to burn me?”

Lancelot bites into his cheek. Abbott Wicklow smirks and rises up to his full, meager height.

“Well I want something of you as well.”

The flog lands between them like a challenge.

“I want you to repent.”

Lancelot stares at the flog. He’s in his family’s old home, he’s become everything that killed them. His mind feels as though it blanks out at the suggestion. He’s come farther than that. He’s learned to lessen the itch and the ache for splitting his own skin. He knows that it’s a twisted desire, that God’s love is not in it. The suffering doesn’t cleanse like he’s been told. Helping others, protecting them, kindness—that is what cleanses you. Not this.

“No,” he says.

“Alright,” Abbott Wicklow replies and nods. The iron net is dropped on his hands and head is yanked back as the blade is dug into his throat. The pain is blinding. A moment later he’s dropped back down, his hands banging painfully against the stones, “now?”

“No.”

This time when they drop him, his nearly blacks out. Spots dance in front of his eyes. Abbott Wicklow crouches in front of him and looks at his hands, making a sound that could be mistaken for concern. The same sound that Father Carden used to make. He preferred Brother Salt saying he shouldn’t die so they could continue to cook together, at least there was honesty in that.

“One more time and you may not be able to hold the flog,” Abbott Wicklow says, “the last thing your friends will see before they die is your flayed body.”

He thinks of Squirrel who saw Gawain in that state. That cannot happen. He thinks of Pym who cannot see it either. He should have asked one of them to make sure they couldn’t see. But he forgot and he knows that they will try to save him. It may not ruin the others the same way but Guinevere was clear to Arthur that he wasn’t to die. And Lancelot cannot put him through not being able to save another person. They will come for him. He knows that.

That’s what family does.

They are his family. Not the church, not the people who died here. Pym and Squirrel are his family. And he needs to return to them, as whole as he can manage. He shoves himself up as best he can and blinks the tears and sweat from his eyes. Abbott Wicklow looks at him and Lancelot is aware of the Paladins around him. Waiting. Wanting. They fight for nothing but lies. He’ll have no part in it. He has to unclench his jaw as he looks up at Abbott Wicklow.

“Forgive me,” he says.

“Repent, my son,” Abbott Wicklow tells him and for the first time Lancelot sees the lie for what it is.

Every motion hurts as he undoes his cloak and the layers they have dressed him in. He’s undone them before but never having been burned with iron like this. He can’t heal the skin if the scars take and the iron scars take much faster. He doesn’t think they’re deep enough to have truly damaged the muscles and tendons but he doesn’t know. It’s smart they have him on the stone so he can’t heal. His hands tremble as he forces them around the flog. The skin cracks around the burns. Abbott Wicklow blesses him.

Lancelot brings the whip over his shoulder.

His skin breaks.

Abbott Wicklow smiles.


	28. Chapter 28

Pym stares at the boat.

This is going to be fine.

They are going to get Lancelot and get back here and rejoin the others. And then they will figure everything else out. She doesn’t have the luxury of staring at the boat for very long, they have to move quickly. Off come the crew and on they go. She manages one glance over her shoulder at those who are staying behind. It’s too dangerous for Guinevere, Merlin says he is needed here, Gawain says he cannot leave the shores and the rest are too little or they aren’t fighters. Some of the Raiders are going and posing as the crew. But the rest are with Guinevere. They will return, she hopes, to a stronger army. But either way they will return and take it from there.

“What are you staring at?” Guinevere questions.

“Nothing,” Pym says quickly.

“You can’t be distracted,” Guinevere says. Pym opens her mouth, “you don’t have it.”

Pym instantly knows what she’s talking about and shakes her head. Lancelot might have the amulet, or they may have taken it from him. Guinevere raises her eyebrows and Pym realizes it may not be the thing she thought. Though she knows these last few months the amulet isn’t what’s kept her safe. It’s been around Squirrel’s neck more than anyone’s, but that’s not the thing either. Lancelot’s been the one to keep them safe. And he isn’t there.

“So don’t be distracted,” Guinevere says sharply, “I didn’t go through the trouble of keeping you alive to have you die on me rescuing some Fey who tried to kill us.”

“You know that’s—“ Pym starts. Guinevere glares, “he hasn’t done that in a long time.”

“But he might,” Guinevere says, “he’s been torn apart before,” Pym presses her lips together, “but he can heal. So you’ve got enough dirt on that ship to bury a man. Take some with you and if the worst happens there should be enough to keep him alive.”

Pym still feels ill but nods.   
  
“And keep the knife on you for Gods sakes,” Guinevere says.

“I will.”

“Go,” Guinevere says with a jerk of her head, “and let’s hope you’re better at following orders than he is.”

Pym lets her have that last jab and pulls her hood up, hurrying onto the ship. She’s not considering the advice. She has to believe that, as in the other times she’s seen Lancelot out of his mind, her scent will get through to him. The only thing she has to think about the knife slicing is her own hand. And she just has to hope it doesn’t come to that. The Raiders work like a well oiled machine and it’s a wonder they aren’t caught immediately. But they aren’t and soon the ship is leaving the shore behind. Pym is relieved this isn’t the first time that she’s left these shores, but it’s still strange to watch them slip away.

“Are you alright?”

She looks over at Arthur. He’s still banged up but holding his own. There’s nothing to do but keep off the ankle for as long as he possibly can. The only horse they have to truly worry about disguising is Goliath, but they can do that well enough when they get there. The dirt should help. Pym realizes that she’s quiet and lost in thought when Arthur smiles miserably and turns to look out at the rapidly disappearing land.

“Sorry,” she says quickly.

“It was a foolish question,” he says, looking out at the horizon.

“Do you miss her already?” Pym asks. Arthur looks over at her, “I do, even though I know it’s safer for her over there.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Arthur advises.  
  
“I don’t have a death wish,” Pym says with a shudder. Arthur nods, “so do you miss her?”

“Yes, alright,” Arthur says and she watches the blush rise on his cheeks, “which is madness since we’ve been apart all of five minutes.”

  
Pym almost smiles. It’s an odd love story to see played out. Guinevere hardly seems the type, but if anyone could disarm her with his charm it’s Arthur. Though she knows Guinevere’s pride won’t let her admit the things she wishes. Arthur knows it as well. She wonders if the two are destined to endlessly flounder about each other. She wonders why the idea fills her with such sinking dread.

“She thinks you’re still in love with Nimue,” Pym says.

  
Arthur stiffens and somehow looks stronger and more defeated than she’s ever seen him.

“A part of me is,” he says, “it always will be.”

Pym wonders if he’s lying to make her feel better. It’s an odd thing they’ve done. They both loved Nimue, in their own ways, and they both watched her die. But she swore her loyalty to Guinevere when Nimue was in front of her. Even Arthur was more loyal to the Fey Queen than she was, and he isn’t even a Fey. It’s a tangled mess and she knows she has enough guilt of her own to deal with, without the complication of being in love with two people at the same time. Nimue is lost to them, that much is very clear. Even if she chose to do the responsible thing and to face her destiny head on. It feels selfish to be jealous of it, to feel bitter about someone doing something so brave and so heroic.

“It’s alright if you love Guinevere,” she says, “I think Nimue would want us to choose our lives.”

“Guinevere doesn’t understand,” Arthur says finally. Pym looks at him curiously, “she doesn’t do things in half measures.”

Pym knows that about her. Guinevere is uncompromising. It makes her a good leader in most situations. She also imagines things are a bit more complicated than just Arthur still loving a ghost. She can see they compliment each other, they balance each other. But if that’s enough to overcome their differences, she can’t say. And Nimue is not the only one that Arthur is mourning. Though if Nimue is in some unreachable grey area, Morgana is in an even more complicated one. One that Pym doesn’t fully understand.

“We have other things we need to focus on,” Arthur says.

“That sounds like an excuse,” Pym admits, “you shouldn’t let that stop you from figuring it out with her.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Arthur says in a way that might be cruel if not for the softness on his face.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Pym says, not understanding why her body seems to act on its own accord and her face grows hot.

“Do you really not see it?” Arthur asks, “you’re blushing.”

“So are you!”

  
Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. Pym can’t quite help the laugh that escapes her but the panic she feels hasn’t lessened. Which is ridiculous because this entire conversation is insane. Or the turn that it’s taken is. Arthur and Guinevere are well matched and both are capable of knowing what they want, even if they can’t quite get on the same page about everything. It hasn’t stopped their feelings from growing. They’ve learned to bring out the best in each other and to support each other through the worst. It’s just that final part they have to get over. Pym has to believe that they will. Arthur staring longingly back at the shore and missing Guinevere after a few minutes out of her company certainly gives her hope for them.

What he’s suggesting though, it’s completely preposterous.

Lancelot barely knows how to want things without being afraid of the pain. She still remembers the first night when he realized that there was a woman in the tent. How red faced and embarrassed he got, even though he was fresh off a lifetime of murdering Fey. When she bled on her monthly cycle the first time he thought she was injured. If he ever had sex it was a very long time ago and not under romantic circumstances. He is just understanding love out of the warped way that Father Carden corrupted him with. She doesn’t think that he’s even aware of the romantic kind except as a sin.

And even if he was, the idea is preposterous.

They are friends, she can say that with confidence. But what on earth would anything else entail? After a lifetime of being told that women are a certain thing, fit a certain role—nothing he’s told her of his faith speaks of room for her and her beliefs. She’s fought so hard to keep the shreds of what she believes. The things she feels are important, things she wants to pass on. All Fey are brothers, people should be treated a certain way, things that matter. Giving those up makes her feel sick. Even more sick than the conversation is making her feel already. She wants to dismiss it as the boat or the stress, but it squirms inside her like a living thing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Arthur says, “I can’t imagine how complicated it must be given your histories.”

She hadn’t even thought of that.

Again.

“It’s not that,” she says, “that’s—something I had to accept to be able to look at him at all,” she confesses, “he’s done horrible things, no matter what was done to him. But it’s not as simple as any of that. I know that now.”

“Do you want to talk about what it is?” Arthur asks, “we’ve got a whole boat ride.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she says, not sure if she’s saying the words for him or for herself, “I just want him away from them. The rest is irrelevant.”

Arthur nods. He opens his mouth and then closes it before looking at her. She’s seen that Arthur is more thoughtful in his words than she initially would have thought back in that market place.

“He’s going to be alright,” he says. She thinks about Guinevere’s warning and says nothing, looking back at the water, “I saw the look on his face. I saw it before. He made a choice that saved as many of us as possible. He didn’t give up.”

“I know that,” she says quietly.

“No, I mean even as they were leading him away. He’s stubborn.”

Pym nods, she knows he is. A less stubborn man would not have done the things he has, both the good and the bad. The fact that he’s had any humanity to save buried under everything is a true miracle. One she’s not sure she’ll ever understand. If he clings to that, to everything that he’s learned, maybe what Guinevere warned her about won’t come to pass. Pym desperately wants it to not come to pass. Arthur was there when he was taken, they’ve fought together and they’ve built a friendship. She has to trust what he’s saying. Even if it doesn’t make her feel particularly better. Not because she doesn’t believe him or doesn’t have trust in Lancelot, she just wishes that she had been there. No matter how irrational the wish may be.

“We’ll deal with him however he comes back,” she says, “as long as we get him back.”

“Absolutely,” Arthur agrees, “no-one is going to give up on him.”

Pym nods and tries not to think of the dirt that Guinevere has supplied them with. She feels eyes on her suddenly and turns to see Tristain standing there. Bringing her along was a risk. But the advantages of having her when she’s able to track Lancelot are undeniable.

“We need to recalculate our route,” she says.

“Why?” Pym asks.

“I miscalculated,” Tristain says simply. Arthur looks at her, “I overheard what you said. If they haven’t broken him physically they’ll try another way. I don’t think they’re heading directly to the Vatican.”

“I’m getting Bedivere,” Arthur says.

Pym nods. Tristain is immediately silent.

“What other way?” Pym questions.

“They’ll take him to Ouessant,” she says. Pym looks at her blankly, “it’s where we came from.”

Pym’s stomach rolls. She thinks of the times that Lancelot has remembered where he came from. The screaming, the panic, she half thinks the place must be hell itself. But it’s not. It’s a real place. The horror must show on her face. Tristain takes a deep breath in that could be mistaken for trying to find peace and then points with both of her hands. Pym looks over as Arthur and Bedivere join them.

“Was taking him to the island a part of the plan?” Pym questions.

“I don’t know,” Bedivere says, “but it’s not impossible,” he looks around but they only see the wind, “if they’ve taken him there, we could cut them off before they get back to the mainland.”

“It could be an ambush,” Pym points out. They all look at her. She looks at Tristain, “you still want him dead.”

“Yes,” Tristain says without any remorse, “but I wouldn’t lead a Priest into an ambush, Father,” she adds quickly to Bedivere.

  
Bedivere nods and looks at them.

“I think this is our best chance,” he says, “or we are looking at a long and precarious journey. We have some element of surprise,” he looks at them, “assuming they’ll be there for long enough that we can catch them.”

“What if they aren’t?” Pym asks.

“Then we’ve lost any ground we’ve gained,” Bedivere says.

It’s a horrible, horrible choice and Pym realizes they are all looking at her. She wants to tell them that Arthur is in charge, anyone is in charge. It’s certainly not her. She thinks about Lancelot coming after her. How he did it alone, pursuing her without a second thought. This is so different. There’s no trail for her to follow. She doesn’t have the gifts he does. She doesn’t know if they are still on the island, if they’ve left. What the right answer is. For a moment she half wants to ask Squirrel.

But she refuses, this is her decision. Like Lancelot made the decision to come after her.

“If he’s affected by the island, will they keep him there?”

“They want to break him to show what betraying the faith does,” Tristain says, “if the island works they may keep him there longer than is wise. It’ll send less of a message if he’s defiant.”

Pym thinks of what they did to break him in the first place. All the scars, the way he aches for harming himself in the name of God. If there’s a chance they can get to him before he spends so long on the road, with the Paladins doing things she doesn’t want to imagine, the better this will be. It’s a slim chance but it’s a chance none the less.

“We need to try,” she says.

“We’ll change course,” Arthur says.

“Tell me which ropes need adjusting,” Pym tells the nearest Raider.

As Arthur works to bring the boat about, she grips the ropes. For a moment everything is silent. She doesn’t even know if she can connect to the Hidden as feebly as she usually can. She’s never tried when she was not back on land. For a moment it’s all silent. She focuses harder, like she’s trying to push herself to the empty spaces where the voice should be. She knows better. She has to force back her desperation. Instead she tries to focus on the weight of the beads in her pocket and the memories she tried to hold onto in that last morning. Most of which blend together. But if she closes her eyes she can put herself back in the bed and she can remember the feel of his hand on hers. It’s not about individual strength, she knows that now.

She feels the Fingers come up on her skin as the knots undo and re-arrange how she wants them to be.


	29. Chapter 29

Pym’s here.

He doesn’t know how he catches her scent over that of his own blood and the dead Ash Folk, but the moment it hits him he knows. They’re close. The wind carries it to him. If it was any weaker, if the walls were any higher, if any small thing was different, it wouldn’t. But he can smell the sharp way her scent is after she uses her knot magic. It’s stronger than that, if possible. As if she’s been leant some kind of strength. Or perhaps he’s just losing his grip on reality. He’s light headed from the blood loss. His hands were only able to hold the whip for so long. Then one of the others was permitted to help him repent.

They enjoyed it.

He spits onto the stones as they wait for him to push himself back up. It’s begun to storm and everything is wet with some combination of rain and his bodily fluids. If the rain continues, if it gets worse, he knows they will be stuck on the island. But it risks the ship. That’s the only way they have gotten here. It’s the only way onto the island. He doesn’t know if Bedivere is with them or if he’s been or if they are foolish enough to bring Tristain. But there is a narrow window until the storm traps them all here where they could safely navigate. Possibly. HIs fingers curl into whatever fists they can manage and he shoves himself back up.

This time when the whip cracks against his back, he sends up a burst of Fire.

The net hits the broken skin of his back and scalp. The pain is blinding. As he knew it would be. He lets out the broken sound he’s been fighting for days. Not because he wants to or needs to, but because it immediately makes the rest of them relax. It covers for the Fire. There’s no plan to them, he’s just some pathetic Fey whose lost control of his abilities. He knows exactly how they are thinking, even before he catches sight of Abbott Wicklow’s smug face as he grips his chin and presses the iron net to more flesh.

“You’ve gone soft,” Abbott Wicklow says, sounding oddly disappointed.

He drops his hand and motions to the men behind him. The net is blissfully removed. For a stupid moment, Lancelot feels as though he can breathe. Until he realizes the flog is being put away. That they are getting ready to leave. When he breathes in, he smells Pym’s scent even stronger now. The winds are unnaturally on their side. Or they have some Fey with them who can make up the difference. But he knows that his signal has been seen. A moment later he smells Squirrel’s and Kaze’s scents as well as the Fey cut themselves. They’re here for him. As he knew they would be. He remembers all of Father Carden’s words and promises as he struggles to his knees.

“Make me strong, Father,” he says.

He sees Abbott Wicklow hesitate and look him up and down. How he can see anything on his freshly burned face, Lancelot doesn’t know. But after a moment, Abbott Wicklow’s practicality wins out over his vanity.

“There is no strength in you, my son,” he says, “but I shall pray for God to have mercy on your soul.”

They shove his clothing back on him and his vision whites out at points. The self flagellation has turned into a whipping and the wounds are deep. Still he doesn’t know how he used to put the hairshirt on. How he thought this was equated with any kind of love. All of the layers feel impossibly heavy, or perhaps that’s just the blood loss. The rough fabric of the hood chafes at his scalp. He refuses to scream though, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop. If he has another turn with the iron net in him. He barely manages to get to his feet, fortunately the Paladins are there to assist him and to keep him upright. A Trinity Guard comes to Abbott Wicklow and tells him something. Lancelot fights the sick feeling in his stomach as Abbott Wicklow listens and his face colors. The Guard steps forward and with a quick blow, the world goes black.

When he opens his eyes, his head bangs against the box as they drop him in. How much time has passed, he cannot say. It’s hard to focus his eyes. There’s a conversation happening above him, one that’s frantic and hushed but it doesn’t register in the way that it should. Words like stuck and the tides swim above his head. Still out of focus. He shoves aside the urge to panic and focuses instead on the even stronger scents. He has to hold on. He focuses on Pym’s most of all. He’s anchored himself with it before and he does that now. He forces himself to listen.

“The tide’s against us and the storm’s getting worse. This isn’t natural,” the muffled voice of the Trinity Guard says.

“Well what would you suggest?” Abbott Wicklow spits, “we’re to bring him to the Pope. He’s to be made an example of!”

“He is to be executed as a heretic,” comes the correction, “we do it now.

“But—“

“We have orders.”

“You can’t burn him in this!”

They haul him out of the box and his head aches horribly. His knees buckle and they let him drop to the ground. The deck of the ship is wet. The rain is hard and the wind is worse. How he can still smell Pym’s scent is beyond him. But even more unnatural is the fog and the darkness. Maybe some of it is natural, he’s not sure. But the darkness isn’t. He’s sure of that, though his mind cannot fathom where it’s been before. The Trinity Guard in front of him is praying. They cannot start a fire in this, that much is clear. Though burning him on the ship also seems ludicrous. These are men who serve the Pope, they are not martyrs. 

The Trinity Guard anoints him with oil.

The others are so close.

They haul him up and hold his arms. He doesn’t know if he’s able to run, but he knows that if he stays here they will figure out a way to kill him. The plan has changed. That much is clear. The Guard in front of him produces a sharp blade and even in his distorted vision, Lancelot can see that it’s iron. He hopes that they are either very close or they are not going to find his body.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a black cloaked figure.

She’s just standing there.

The rain stops abruptly. The storm is not natural. That much is very clear. It turns off like a candle has been blown out and everyone is aware of the new figure who has appeared quite silently. Abbott Wicklow looks at her in surprise. She just stays there as everyone stares. Including him.

“Who are you?” Abbott Wicklow gets out.

“I’m the Lady of Avalon,” she says, “I’m here to watch you die.”

That’s all the opening he needs to focus on his hands. They haven’t thought to chain him or perhaps there’s no time. He’s never killed someone just with the Fire. They glow a sickly green as it pushes into their chests and lights them from the inside. He rips his hands back and the fire is still going as they fall to the deck. There wasn’t anything living on the wood before, but Morgana’s wind somehow stokes and spreads the Flame. It catches and spreads across everything. Across it, he sees Morgana looking at him. Even as Abbott Wicklow falls to the flames.

A moment later, the iron blade is buried deep in his gut.

The Trinity Guard who does it is half burned and burns the rest of the way. But it’s no matter. Lancelot looks stupidly down at the blade and when he looks up, Morgana is in front of him. He’s going to die. He can generate the Fire, but healing requires the Green. The great ship begins to crack under the heat. It’s enough. He bends down and touches the deck, cutting off the fire. As he straightens up, he tastes copper in the back of his throat. The knife is deep and it’s iron. He knew his death would not be kind but it’s not a way that he expected to perish.

“I’m sorry,” he confesses to Morgana, “for what we did to you.”

“As am I,” she replies, “take a deep breath,” he takes as deep a breath as he’s able to, “hold your nose,” she says, “and try not to panic.”

She seizes the front of his cloak and for a moment it feels like they’re flying.

Then the water closes over their heads.

She was right to tell him not to panic. The salt is agony on every fresh wound. The impact of the cold makes it difficult to hold onto the air in his lungs. To say nothing of the crumbling ship. He should have taken the Fire earlier. Above him he sees hooves. Of course there were horses in the ship. But they’re close to land. The others are there. He hopes that they will find their way to safety or better yet, they will find their way back. They’re good horses. His lungs burn as he looks for Morgana and realizes she’s gone.

His lungs burn, the knife in him burns, everything burns.

Being burned as a heretic isn’t how he saw this ending.

He hopes that they know he tried so hard to live. To get back to them. As he looks up and sees the horses, he figures if he’s going to sink so no-one can see his body, perhaps this is not the worse way to go. He can almost imagine that one of them is Goliath. Maybe Squirrel can name the other Lancelot. He hopes that Pym and Squirrel will care for him, he just has to tell himself that they will. Out of the corner of his eye he sees gold. He can’t help but look towards it as it shimmers and twists forward. Joined by others. The gold particles dart and swirl around him.

They look like minnows.

His lungs burn fiercer and he knows what Morgana said, but she only appears to those who are about to die. He knows this is his death. Holding on is just prolonging the inevitable. Still he tries. Even if his body is too broken to swim. He’s not sinking as he should be with the weight of his garments. But he cannot make himself swim. Even as the gold minnows circle him, like they are comforting him in his last moments. He fights on as much as he can but his lungs can only hold a breath for so long. But he has the minnows and the horses.

And somehow Arthur.

He stares because Arthur should not be here but he is. Even holding his breath Arthur manages a smile like they are old friends meeting in some tavern. Two things Lancelot has never done or had. Arthur gets his arm around his chest and Lancelot finds himself being dragged upwards. It hurts worse, but he holds on. Morgana appears to those who are dying but it’s Arthur who saves his life. They break the water. Every breath hurts but they are both gasping for air.

“I have him!” Arthur shouts upwards, “I have him! He’s alive!” Arthur flings a hand out and grips one of the horses. It’s Goliath. Goliath is here, “let’s go back,” Goliath immediately starts swimming.

“How—“

“It’s a long story,” Arthur says, “I’ll tell you when we have you patched up,” he promises, “just breathe for now, I have you.”

Lancelot nods.

Arthur and Goliath have him, he can manage to breathe.


	30. Chapter 30

It takes Kaze and Bedivere to get him up with Arthur helping from the bottom.

Pym still doesn’t know how they manage.

Somehow between the three of them they get him down and out of the rain as it starts again, as though whatever made it stop offended it. Kaze pulls one of the buckets with the earth and the roots over but Pym holds her hand up to stop her. They’ve dressed him in his old clothes again. She can see the knife sticking out of his gut and knows that has to be addressed first. But if he heals and there’s something in the wound, she’s just going to have to cut him open again. He’s strong but any pain she can spare she wants to.

“He might have the hairshirt on,” Squirrel pipes up. She puts her hand down the front of his shirt and hisses as she pulls it back. Whatever they’ve lined it with is sharp enough to cut, “he does,” she says, “pass me that knife,” she instructs. He grabs it and she cuts the fastenings on his cloak, moving it aside. She cuts the sides of his tunic, not because she cares about the clothing but because she has to guide each layer over the knife handle, “Kaze? Can you help get him up?”

Kaze helps sit him up and they remove the wet clothing. Kaze swears and moves back, Pym looks at his back and her stomach rolls. The wounds there are like nothing she’s seen, not even the ones he put there himself. There doesn’t seem to be a part of him that’s not split open or burned. But it’s the knife that will kill him. Kaze carefully eases him down and looks at her.

“He has to touch the dirt right after,” she says.

“I’m ready,” Kaze tells her.

Pym nods and grips the handle before snatching her hand back. She knows the sensation. It’s iron. There’s already a welt on her palm. Kaze leans forward and she shakes her head. She can’t imagine what kind of damage is being done to him. She grabs the cloak and wraps it around the knife, pulling the hateful thing out. Lancelot doesn’t stir. Blood doesn’t spill from the wound like she’s dreading, but it wouldn’t. Not if it’s been burned like that. Kaze shoves his hand into the bucket.

Nothing happens.

He’s not dead, Pym refuses to even consider that. She presses her fingers to his neck and she can feel his heart beating. But nothing’s happening. Not the instant reaction she’s used to seeing when he touches the earth. She doesn’t know what’s happening. She doesn’t know if he knows either. If it’s the cold or the knife, if too much has happened—she looks at Kaze who shakes her head. None of them seem to know what’s happening. Before she can push Squirrel out, he runs off. Moments later he runs back, pulling a cloaked boy with him.

“Bors!” Pym gasps. Bors takes one look at Lancelot and bursts into tears, “Squirrel what—“

“You have to do it,” Squirrel says firmly.

“B-but—“

“Come on! He needs us,” Squirrel says.

Bors is still crying as he comes over. Squirrel pushes him towards the bucket of earth. Pym watches as he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. She’s not sure what. He shoves his thumb into the dirt and drops it in, patting the dirt down. He closes his eyes and bites his lip to keep from trembling. For a moment nothing happens and then the Fingers appear faintly on his skin. The dirt trembles and she watches in amazement as something sprouts and pushes through. It grows and forms into a sapling. Bors opens his eyes and looks up at them. She watches Lancelot’s eyebrows draw together at the new scent and she nods at Kaze who presses his hand to the tree.

This time, it trembles and after a moment, it wilts and dies.

Pym peers at the wound and sees it’s begun to bleed as it heals. The iron burns are the hardest to heal, they scar the quickest. She hates what she needs to do, but before she can stop herself she picks up one of her own knives and works it into the wound. Kaze dives forward and presses into Lancelot’s shoulders as the pain wakes him. Pym goes as fast as she can, cutting away as much of the damage as she can see and going deeper still, until the wound is ugly and would be fatal, but it’s not iron burns.

“Do it again,” Squirrel says.

Bors wipes his eyes and repeats the process. Squirrel ducks under Kaze’s arms and grabs Lancelot’s hand, shoving it into the dirt. This time when the tree dies, the wound heals properly. Pym nearly collapses in relief. It’s the most life threatening, but there’s so much more. Lancelot’s eyes are still closed, but she knows he’s awake. Him waking up in pain is the last thing she was expecting or wanted. Though she knows that she should have known better. He’s not fighting them, though somehow his blood has still wound up on her hands and her knife. Kaze looks from her to the buckets of dirt to Bors.

“There may not be enough here to heal everything,” she says.

“As long as we heal the worst of it, we can go back to the island,” she says, “there should be enough there.”

“I’ll talk to the Raiders,” Kaze says, “do you need to cut anywhere else?”

“I don’t know,” Pym says, “did you see anything?”

“No,” she says, “his back is bad.”

“Help me turn him over,” Pym orders.

Kaze helps get him upright. Lancelot helps as much as he can but Pym can see he’s still in shock or lost within himself. Or forcing himself to be somewhere else. As much as Pym wants some sign that he’s alright, anything that helps him escape the pain is more important. She grabs whatever dry fabric she can and wraps it into some kind of cushioning. They can deal with the burns on his face and his—

Her mind goes blank for a second, or maybe it’s some kind of denial.

But when they lay him on his stomach, she sees what they’ve done to his scalp. The hateful symbol is burned there, fresh and dark. It’s much larger and more ornate, as though it’s meant to be seen in a way the previous one was not. Some of it is marred by the hatch marks that decorate all of him, but she knows the symbol’s significance.

If he can’t heal all of it, she has to do something to help with the pain.

She turns to the book and nearly smacks into Morgana, who has appeared quite silently in the most inconvenient place. The boys jump, Kaze’s hand goes to her blade and Pym immediately puts herself in between Morgana and Lancelot.

“You can’t have him,” she blurts out.

“I can,” Morgana says, “but he’s not what I’m here for,” she throws up her veil and her face is the Morgana Pym knows. Almost. There’s a wisdom to her eyes and a weight to her that wasn’t there previously. She’s turned from a breeze to a gale, “she’s right,” she says looking at Kaze, “he cannot heal all the way. If he does he’s going to overload his Fire and blow the ship up. I’ll be here for all of you instead.”

Pym looks at the buckets and knows that isn’t an option. Much as she wishes that it was. Besides her Lancelot’s breath catches and she knows there’s limited time before he’s healed enough to wake up. She isn’t sure if she imagines seeing the muscles in his back or not, but she knows those wounds have to be dealt with next. Morgana looks at her and she turns to Kaze.

“Hold his shoulders,” she says, “I have to clean them out,” Kaze looks at Morgana before pressing her hands to Lancelot’s shoulders. If the Hidden are feeling kind they’ll let her use her magic to do this and blow them clean. They are, but it brings Lancelot further back from wherever he’s gone, “it’s alright,” she finds herself saying, not sure if he can hear her, “I’m almost done,” she adds and she has no choice except to get fresh water and pour it over the cuts. 

When she finally is, his fingers are digging into the wood of the table. She’s never seen him express discomfort like this and it makes her stomach drop. She looks up at Kaze who takes her eyes from Morgana to look at her.

“Keep going,” she says.

Pym nods, though she feels sick at the thought of it. But she knows that she’s right. Kaze presses Lancelot’s hand to the tree and this time it dies faster and a glimmer of Fey Fire is left in it’s wake. But the skin of Lancelot’s back has gone from torn and loose to simply torn. The deep cuts are now more similar to the whip marks she recognizes very well. They’re deep but the placement of them is hauntingly familiar. She’s seen them before on his back, when they first met. She’s not sure she will ever forget the sight of them. He’s come so far from doing that, she doesn’t know how they made him return to it. But her anger towards them is matched only by her sadness for him.

“He’s losing control of it,” she says, “we need to stop.”

“This is still bad,” Kaze says, looking over at Morgana who keeps watching.

“She’s right.”

Her heart jumps and though it’s only been a few days, it feels as though she’s half forgotten the sound of his voice. She drops down to see him try to open his eyes and then stop, his face screwing up in discomfort. Quickly she jumps up and grabs whatever dry cloth she can manage, wetting it and wringing it out over his eyes. When he opens them they’re still red and irritated from the salt, but his eyes are open and she can foolishly believe that this is all going to be alright.

“I can’t control it,” he rasps, “it’s alright.”

“It’s not,” she says, “is any of it life threatening?” He looks at her, “Lancelot!”

“Help me up.”

Kaze moves forward and helps him sit up. Pym immediately wants to object, but the sight of his blood on the table makes her think better of it. Lancelot goes pale and she grabs the nearest bucket, shoving it under his mouth as he expels what little he has in his stomach. Mostly it seems like it’s sea water and bile. The ship is barely moving, even she doesn’t feel sea sick. He forces his eyes open with effort and looks at Morgana. Pym doesn’t know what’s happened between them but a moment later she looks incredibly frustrated with him.

“He’s still bleeding inside,” she says, “they knocked him unconscious, most of his healing’s gone to his head.”

“We have to get him off the ship then,” Pym says, “we need a sheet or something. We’ll take him to the island and he can heal there.”

“I can walk,” he says.

“You absolutely cannot,” Pym shoots back, “where’s Bedivere?”

“She’s right,” Kaze says when Lancelot opens his mouth, “save your strength.”

“How’s it goin—“ Arthur falls silent at the sight of Morgana. For a moment Pym wasn’t sure if he could see her. Or if her presence meant her own death was on hand. But Arthur sees her. Something like uncertainty crosses Morgana’s face and she looks almost like the woman Pym met. Before the look can even fully dissipate, Arthur is closing the distance between them. Pym holds her breath, hoping that Morgana will be solid and real. Somehow she is. And when they collide it’s with a wet sound from all the water that’s soaked Arthur, “I didn’t know if you heard me,” he says.

“I did,” Morgana promises, gripping his tunic, “every prayer, every night, I couldn’t make it back until now. I’m so sorry—“

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “you’re back, that’s all that matters.”

Morgana looks as though she has more to say but she nods instead.

“I’m back for as long as I can manage,” she promises, “I’ll explain later,” she looks at Lancelot, “right now he needs to get on shore to heal or you risk him losing control and setting the boat on fire.”

“Well we don’t want that,” Arthur says and there’s such surety in his voice, Pym almost believes it, “how are you feeling?” Lancelot gives him a look, “fair enough. We’ve been getting the horses to the shore,” he looks at the trees, “how—“

“Bors has a green thumb,” Squirrel says.

Arthur looks at the tearful boy and nods.

“Can you come and help us?”

“I need more seeds,” he says.

“Is Tristain here?” Lancelot asks. Kaze nods, “bring her,” he says, “she should see it.”

His eyes slam shut and she looks at Kaze. But it’s Squirrel who runs to him and jostles his leg, probably one of the only uninjured parts of him. Somehow. Lancelot manages to open his eyes. Squirrel looks utterly unafraid and Pym realizes he’s seen Lancelot in this state before. Or something much closer to it.

“Hey, you gotta keep your eyes open. You’re scaring Bors.”

As if on cue, Bors lets out a very loud, very genuine wail. Pym honestly can’t tell the difference if he’s faking it or he’s being sincere as he usually is when he cries. But given that he’s rooting in the dirt for seeds, she thinks it may be the former. She catches his eye and shakes her head slightly and the wailing goes down in volume. But Lancelot’s eyes are open, focusing on the ground.

“Here, switch with me,” she says quickly to Kaze.

She wedges herself under his arm, keeping him upright. This close she can feel how feverish he is. She can also see how deeply burned his hands are. Bedivere said they knew what to do. She is just grateful that the Paladins had no idea they would know what to do as well. He tenses and she sees his eyes close but she can feel he’s awake. His head turns slightly towards her.

“I smelled you, on the wind,” he says, his eyes searching her hands.

She refuses to give into any desire to just collapse against him in relief. There’s no time for that right now. Once he’s better, she plans on not letting him out of her sight for a long time. She pulls up her sleeve showing him the shallow cut most of them wear.

“We wanted you to know we were coming,” she says.

“I did,” he looks at her, “I tried to slow them,” his eyes close again and his weight leans heavily on her, “I tried to stay alive.”

“You did both,” she promises, “we saw your signal.”

He smiles as best he can, though it makes the marks on his face twist horribly. It makes her think again of the first time they met, when the idea of him smiling was completely unfathomable. Probably to both of them. There’s nowhere she can touch him that won’t hurt, no matter how much she aches to do it. She can just help keep him upright and awake as everyone gathers what supplies they’ll need to get him to shore.

There are so many stronger people, she doesn’t know why she is the one who helps him stand up. But she does, though it’s Arthur who helps him into the makeshift stretcher they’ve made for him. When they get out from the shelter, she’s surprised to see that the rain has stopped. Everything is still slippery and it’s a miracle they make it ashore with minor falls and bruising. Immediately Goliath moves from the herd of horses and comes over, shoving his face into the hammock.

“I’ll be alright,” Lancelot rasps and though his hands are hurt and shake terribly, he still reaches up to touch Goliath’s muzzle.

Pym takes the horses reins, knowing it’s pointless to leave him behind. He’s rather like Squirrel in that regard. She looks up and around for any place that might be somewhat sheltered.

“Up there,” Tristain says.

“What?”

“It’s up there,” she repeats, taking in a deep breath of air. They look at her blankly, “the village,” she says, “come on.”


	31. Chapter 31

“Enough! He’s healed enough. Help me get him inside the tent. We’ll continue later,” Pym says.

Hands help him up and he’s so grateful he could weep, but he doesn’t have any more bodily fluid to spare. He realizes that they’re on the island and he can faintly remember healing and making it there and healing again. Mostly he remembers anchoring himself to Pym’s scent and the press of Kaze’s hands as she held him down when he wanted to do nothing but twist from the pain. Unlike when he was a prisoner, no-one drags him. They help him stagger, even if he has to lean on them very heavily. Nearly all the way. His eyes have been rinsed of salt but he thinks they must be still blurry.

“Easy, we’re almost there,” Arthur assures him. On his other side Kaze nods. They both get him in the tent and settled on the ground, “I can help this time.”

Kaze looks at them both and then nods, slipping out of the tent. Lancelot can feel the aches and burns all over. They’re half healed but he doesn’t have it in him to pull more energy. Not at the moment. Arthur has no concept of that but he doesn’t say anything that Lancelot would expect from a man-blood. He just offers a smile and sits in front of him. Over his shoulder, Lancelot sees Pym hurry in. She glances at the two of them and smiles before she looks at the rest of him.

“How long do you think you’ll need?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Alright,” she says, “I’m going to clean and cover your back,” she says. He knows she’s telling him things for his own benefit and nods, “Morgana said you got hit in the head.”

“I don’t remember getting onto the boat,” he says.

“How does it feel now?”

“Aches,” he says.

“But you’re not nauseous or dizzy? Having trouble staying awake?” He shakes his head, “good.”

He realizes that he was having trouble staying awake back on the boat, for more than just trying to escape the pain. When he and Squirrel ran, he had to heal himself as well and it took a moment before he realized it was all going to his head. Though with those blows he managed to stay conscious. Here it was a much more precise strike. He’s lucky he woke up when he did. Cleaning his back stings horribly but he holds himself still. A few moments later, something wonderfully cool starts tracing the hatch marks from the net. He remembers it from when he had the cuffs on. Only it seems much stronger this time.

“Help me with this.”

Arthur puts his hands on his shoulders and he and Pym wind the bandages around his torso and over his shoulders until everything is covered. It feels like he can breathe a little better with the wounds covered, even if the rest of him still aches and burns. Arthur looks over his shoulder.

“Probably his hands next?”

“I think the brand,” she says, “keep his hands there.”

“You don’t have to—“ he starts and she stops. He looks at Arthur who somehow seems to catch on.

“Right, I can do it,” he starts.

“Stop,” Pym says firmly. Lancelot feels her hand settle on his shoulder, “it’s alright with me, I know it’s not there by choice. Do you want Arthur to do it instead?”

It seems like a foolish thing to voice but they both look at him patiently.

  
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

“I’m not,” she promises, “may I?” He nods finally and she carefully touches the burn, taking care to move any hair out of the way as she does. It feels cool against his skull. He knows the burn is a minor thing, but he itches to get it off his skin more than any other wound, “done,” Pym says, touching his shoulder again, “now we can switch.”

His pants are still damp with the salt and they are careful to keep his hands from touching them. His hand are a mess. Thankfully what wasn’t superficial was split open at some point and healed along with the worst of it. But the hatch marks are bad. Losing flexibility in his hands isn’t something he wants to think about. It hurts deep inside to think that all of this was orchestrated by Father. Even if some logical part of him knew that he was doing it. He thinks that the iron box and the net are probably deep underwater, rusting where they belong. That he survived. Father may have planned for his betrayal, but he couldn’t have planned for everything. He focuses back on the present as he hears the tent fall closed as Arthur leaves. He looks at Pym as she examines his hands and picks one up.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She looks up at him, surprised.

“What are you apologizing for? None of this is your fault,” she says. He hesitates, “Arthur told me you surrendered because it was the only way, I didn’t think you wanted to go with them.”

The fact that Arthur realized, that anyone realized, is the kind of miracle that Father dreamed about witnessing. The fact that he had the sense to tell her, even moreso. He wasn’t sure what to expect coming back, the important thing was to get back at all. But the fact that she’s not angry or upset at him is oddly relieving. Like a wound he was bracing for but didn’t have to suffer though getting.

“After what happened in the cell, I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

“It was just bad timing,” she says, looking down at his hands. She carefully spreads the poultice across the back and begins to wrap it. She does the other one as well, “how does it feel?”

“Better,” he says, “you’ve gotten better at making this.”

“It seemed like someone was going to need it,” she says, her face blushing. She settles his hands in his lap and gets to her knees, “I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s a way to do this without touching them.”

“It’s fine,” he says.

She nods and dips her fingers in, spreading the herbs over the marks on his face. They only touched him once with the net there and only briefly, it’s barely even a burn except where Abbott Wicklow forced it. But he imagines it looks quite odd. She looks at him apologetically before she carefully touches his Marks. The coldness surprises him and he moves his head back.

“Did I hurt you?” She asks quickly.

“No,” he says, “it’s—“ he stops, “I haven’t had them touched. It’s cold.”

“Oh,” she says, “I can avoid them?”

“No,” he says and leans forward.

  
She sighs and carefully touches the skin, as lightly as she can. It’s still alarmingly cold. But given the heat of his skin, it feels almost nice. He never thought the skin might absorb things differently, it’s not as if his Marks are touched frequently.

“This reminds me of the first time we met,” Pym says, “when I had to tell you I wasn’t going to touch them,” he looks up at her in surprise, “I thought that was your greatest worry about your Fey heritage.”

He manages to smile at the memory and how ridiculous a thing it was to be concerned about even then. Smiling is not a good idea. It makes the burns move. Unfortunately around Pym, attempts to not smile seem to result in the opposite occurring. She finishes most of his face and ducks down underneath his chin, adding more to his face and the side of his neck. There’s no good way to cover it. It’s just a matter of letting it soak in until he’s regained enough strength to heal himself more.

It seems insane that they would go through this much trouble for him.

They’ve split up, that much is clear. And stolen a boat—though given it’s Guinevere, he imagines that was more of a relaxing event. But she’s sacrificed a good number of important members of her forces to find him. If they hadn’t headed them off here, she could have been without them for months. It’s a foolish, foolish thing to do for one Fey. Even with his destructive abilities.

“Lancelot?”

The gentle speaking of his name drags him back from the miserable thoughts. Pym looks at him curiously. He wants to deny anything is amiss but a thought occurs to him.

“Does your book say how to make a gift stronger?” He asks, “I can be moved—“

“Stop,” she cuts in, “you’re strong enough. You have to give your body a chance to mend.”

“We shouldn’t waste time here,” he says, “Guinevere needs us back.”

  
“She does. And the Pope will probably send people out here to look for them,” she says, “but for right now you should just focus on healing—“ he opens his mouth, “recovering,” she cuts in, “without straining your abilities,” she looks across his face, “for now you just need to rest.”

The idea of resting or sleeping rather, sounds horrifying. He’s lost the ability not to wake screaming. He can’t imagine what he would do if he was on anything flammable. Even the tent seems as though it’s asking for trouble. As his wounds have healed and he knows he’s among friends, the smell of the place is growing more grating. He wants to be off the island. No matter if he burns it down in the process. He’s almost grateful for the burns on his face and the herbs that are smeared over them, if only for the smell that overwhelms that of the dead. He shakes his head, it’s the most he can manage. All the work that’s been done and he feels as though he’s lost the ability to speak.

Pym shifts closer to him, mirroring their positions so their knees are bumped together. It’s a more gentle touch, but it’s firm enough to jar him back to the present. She doesn’t look at him as though he’s done something shameful or someone to be afraid of or repulsed by. Or someone whose upset her. He doesn’t know why it matters so much that he didn’t make this worse for her, but it does. In a way that it doesn’t quite matter as much for everyone else.

“What is that smell?” They both turn to see Squirrel standing there and something in him relaxes in a way he doesn’t have words for at the sight of him, “is it supposed to distract from your face?”

“Squirrel!”

“It’s an honest question!” He says coming over, “you look awful.”

“As terrible as last time?” He asks.

“Yeah I remember saying you shouldn’t do that again,” Sauirrel says, shaking his head with fake gravitas, “you should have listened to me. It would have saved you your good looks.”

“Whatever will I do?” He asks mildly.

“I don’t know,” Squirrel deadpans, “don’t you want to know why we brought a horse to rescue you?”

“I imagine he wouldn’t let you leave without him,” Lancelot says.

“I told you he’d guess,” Squirrel says sitting down, “so why do you look like when we ran away?”

Pym looks at him and he focuses down at his hands. That somehow makes it easier, not looking at them.

“I’m anxious to get off the island,” he says.

“Me too,” Squirrel agrees, “I think Arthur’s the only one who wants to stay. When Guinevere finds out he jumped off the boat with Goliath, she’s going to kill him,” he looks at him, “wait why do you want to leave? Aren’t you happy to be here?”

“No.”

“I can help you get some rest,” Pym says, “you shouldn’t dream if I’ve done this right.”

Squirrel gives him the tiniest shake of his head. Lancelot ignores the advice and nods. Logically he knows that if he gives his body a chance to rest, he’ll be able to use his gift with control again. She pulls out a small vial and uncaps it. His hands are fairly useless. She helps him drink it and the bitter taste almost makes him feel sick all over again. Squirrel jumps up and wedges himself behind him.

“I tried to warm you it was gross,” he says, helping ease him down.

Gross as it may be, through some combination of it and the herbs under his nose, Lancelot is half asleep by the time they lay him down. The last thing he feels is Pym’s hand on his brow, then he slips away. It’s a sharp constant to his drugged sleep before, the only horrors when he wakes are the ones in his mind. No-one is trying to hurt him.

His last thought is that he is safe and, no matter how terrible things are, very glad to be alive.


	32. Chapter 32

Pym hates feeling this helpless.

Lancelot falls asleep almost instantly and the trust he puts in them to do that, the trust he puts in her to take the vial, is humbling. She has to fight the wave of shame that threatens her. When she was rescued she was with them for barely a few hours. He was with them for so much longer. She knows the circumstances were different, but it still seems so wrong. Given the state of him, she can’t imagine what they would have found after a month. If there would have been anything left to rescue. She looks at Squirrel and touches his shoulder.

“He’s going to be alright,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

She nods and is glad that it’s not a lie. She’s sure, she doesn’t know how long it will take or if being the same is even possible, but she’s sure Lancelot will be alright. One way or another. She has to believe in his strength, the same way he’s believed in theirs.

“I think you making him laugh helped,” she says. Squirrel looks a little happier at that, “do you want to sit with him a while?” She offers. Squirrel nods, “call if you need me.”

She glances back at them, Squirrel looks content to sit with him even in his bruised state. Pym knows it’s better than the first time when they made their way to the Fey. At least Lancelot is able to heal himself more easily and the two are not alone. She can’t imagine what that first journey must have been like. She steps out and onto the stone of the strange village they’ve entered. It’s certainly a place that she never thought she would see. Nor was it one she expected to exist as much as it does. It makes her wonder if her village looks like this. There is probably even less of it still standing. Everything seems to be structured around a central pit, though the houses all have them in front of them and in them. Unsure of what she’s looking at, she seeks out the one person she imagines could tell her.

“Hello,” she says, finding her easily. She’s staring out at the ruins of the ship, “are you alright being here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Tristain questions, though as usual with her it comes out more as a challenge, “I only found this place because it reeked of Ash Folk and I smelled his blood,” she continues.

“You don’t seem to care about the Ash Folk,” Pym observes. Tristain looks away, “but you want to kill him for revealing the Fire,” she can see Tristain’s patience wearing thin and only the knowledge that Tristain will think twice about killing her makes her keep going, “you don’t have the same scar from them trying to cut you neck.”

“Because they didn’t,” she snaps, “my parents ran away or tried to. They were cowards. They disobeyed.”

Whatever Pym was expecting her to say, that was not it. She’s noticed that compared to Lancelot, Tristain’s skin is much less scarred. She believes, not just in her faith or the ways of the Ash Folk that she values, no she believes in herself. Unlike Lancelot who was raised on brutality and being torn apart, Tristain seems to have been raised to believe she is valuable. She believes she is entitled to Lancelot’s life for any reason that suits her, Pym isn’t sure she even truly needs a reason. Even months being chained and carted about haven’t crippled that belief like a few days with the Paladins seem to have for Lancelot.

“They protected you,” she says.

“Of course they did,” she replies, “Didn’t your parents ever wish you had been born a boy?” Pym glances down and nods, “it’s the opposite for the Ash Folk. My parents were proud to have a girl,” anger crosses her face, “so proud they let it cloud their judgement.”

“Which you would know nothing about,” Pym observes. Tristain scoffs, “they tried to run?”

“Lancelot already broke under torture—not that it took much,” she adds, “when they found us, I was valuable enough to be kept alive.”

It makes an odd amount of sense, a lot of sense actually. Lancelot’s been torn down and Tristain has been built up. Both wear the affect of their upbringing and their scars or lack of them. She sees Tristain looking at her out of the corner of her eye. Not like she’s judging her reaction but because she seems to be anxious about something.

“You look anxious,” she says.

“I’m not, I need something,” Tristain says. Pym raises her eyebrows but doesn’t immediately say anything, “I need a hawk.”

“A what?”

“A hawk,” Tristain repeats, like that’s a normal thing to ask for, “I need the boy to make a tree so I can bait it and catch one.”

“I’m not following,” Pym says.

“There are hawks here,” Tristain says, “my family used to use them to hunt,” her voice takes on a clipped tone, “I want one.”

“We’re not giving you a bird of prey,” Pym sputters.

“I brought you here didn’t I?” Tristain challenges, “we both know if I hadn’t Lancelot would be dead.”

“You did that because Kaze beat you and you want to kill him yourself,” Pym says.

“Get me the hawk and I’ll let him live,” Tristain says, “call you not outsiders.”

Pym stares at her and she stares right back. This means something to her, that much is clear. It’s the same way she’s negotiated for a Bedivere’s freedom. Or to get him to hear her confession. Pym can think of so many good reasons not to get a bird of a prey anywhere near Tristain, but she can also see the advantages of having her on their side. Even fully healed, another good swordsman would be an advantage. One who thinks like a Trinity Guard and can make Fey Fire would be even better.

“Bors already made trees, use on of those.”

“Bait,” Tristain says, “Lancelot’s signal will have attracted the ones I want anyway.”

Pym shakes her head and goes to her pack. There’s dried meat in there. Tristain gives her a disgusted look and Pym throws her hands up.

“What kind of bait?”

“Freshly killed. Give me your knife.”

“Absolutely not,” Pym says.

“Guinevere’s not here to scold you, I’ll give it right back.”

“No!”

Tristain crosses her arms and Pym glares right back. She is absolutely not giving Tristain her knife. She’s already had to use it on Lancelot. If it stays in its sheath the rest of the time then they will be lucky.

“I’ll tie this up and if we catch a hawk, then we can figure out if you can keep it,” she says.

She strings the meat up in one of the trees Bors has grown for when Lancelot wakes up. Then she goes back to the tent and she scrubs as clean as she can manage before deciding that if she can catch a few hours of rest, that’s probably a better use of her time.

She slips into the tent to see Squirrel curled up against the side, fast asleep. She lowers herself next to Lancelot. He’s drugged and breathing steadily, the poultice is doing its job. Hopefully that will help take some of the burden off his gift. It’s a strange thing to think about the first time they met, how cautious and closed off he was. How right it seemed like he should be that way. Now when she sees him close himself off, she wants to shake him until he sees that he isn’t that man anymore. Even as she stares at him, his face draws together and his eyes open. She realizes that her scent must have gotten to him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Help me up,” he asks.

She decides that’s a battle not worth fighting and nods, helping him sit and then stand up. His feet are steadier under him, but he still leans on her as she helps him outside. The fact that he’s gotten any rest at all is a miracle, she reminds herself. Let alone the hours that he has. It’s a beautiful night out, she can hear the waves but the lack of trees makes the moon and stars look unnaturally bright. His marks catch the light where they shine through. He leads her away from the others. Bors has made several trees in preparation but he leads her past even those.

“Where are we going?” She asks.

“I remember a place,” he says, “there.”

She sees a hole cut out in the floor. She helps him lean against the wall. Initially it looks like it’s to be lifted, but after she judges for a moment, she realizes it slides. She pushes it back. Surprisingly it slides easily. Easier than she would have expected. She helps Lancelot up. He focuses and as they descend into the darkness, one of his hands gets wrapped in green flame. It incinerates the bandages and Pym fights not to scold him. The stairs take them in a tight circle down to the bottom of a large chamber.

The green light catches things embedded in the wall that reflect the green light. She realizes the walls are stone but formed in a way that leaves wide gaps of tightly packed earth visible. It’s like being in a giant cellar. Except it’s not, she can feel the weight of it. This place is special. Lancelot turns his head abruptly and looks at her.

“Do you hear that?”

“No,” she says, immediately thinking of how injured her must still be, “come—“

“Wait,” he says.

She bites her tongue as he looks down, focusing on whatever it is he can hear. His head tilts one way and then the other, as if it’s searching for the sound. But it tilts towards her finally and he opens his eyes. A shiver goes down her spine at the look on his face. She’s seen it before on Nimue. On Lenore. Even on Morgana sometimes.

“Alright come on,” she says, “they’ll still be talking after you heal.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that why we’re here? There’s roots,” she says motioning to the wall, “put your hands against the stones and let me get your back clean.”

He obeys her and she undoes the bandages, wiping as much as she can. None of the wounds are open but she doesn’t want to risk his skin healing over something it shouldn’t. He wipes his face and skull quickly before burning off the bandages. He doesn’t pray, Pym’s not sure why. The green light stays in his fingers as he looks at the dirt. It must be a trick but Pym is sure it looks like one of the roots is reaching for him. He reaches back and she swears the root and his finger caress like a dance before they lock around each other.

The Fire seems to spark from the inside, but miraculously it has a place to go. It fills the inside of each of the glass pieces, though now she can see they are’s pieces but cups embedded in the soil. They’re cut so the light is reflected all around even more than when his fire touched the outsides. In the light she can see Lancelot’s skin has pulled back together. There are still marks, but the ones on his face, neck and hands are gone. Only those on his scalp and back remain.

“What is this place?” She asks.

“Somewhere sacred,” he says. He looks at her and Pym gives him an exasperated look. A flicker of a smile crosses his face, “I don’t remember everything,” he looks at her curiously, “can you not hear that?”

She only hears the wind and the sound of his fire and shakes her head.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not certain,” he admits.

She doesn’t know why they are both whispering, just that it seems wrong to speak in normal voices here. She recognizes the weight of the place from back when the Sky Folk had one, though it was more open than this. This place seems to have been built to be away from the elements, like the roots that grow in it. She doesn’t hear whatever he does, but when she steps on something she somehow instinctively knows that she’s standing at the very middle of this place. Where all the roots come together.

And if she wasn’t sure, the glowing spiral would tell her.

“One of these is glowing,” she says, looking down at the runes. He crouches down and looks at her across the green flickering light. She tears her eyes away and looks at the glowing runes, “can you read it?”

“It’s not words,” he says, “it’s Marks,” he says, “all of our Marks are here,” she isn’t sure if he’s speaking to her or himself, “this is where we all are connected to the Green.”

She looks and realizes the Marks on his face are of the same pattern. If she looks at the other swirls, in one of them she can see ones that look like Tristain. Lancelot looks down at the Marks on the ground and touches the ones under his eyes. She can’t imagine what must be going through his head, what being back here must be like.

It feels wrong to be here.

Being of a different Folk has never quite felt wrong, but this place seems sacred to the Ash Folk specifically. She thinks of Tristain’s anger at him revealing the Fire to outsiders, the divide that came between the Ash Folk and the rest of the Fey. She can’t fault them for being more insular than most. She doesn’t know what Lancelot is hearing, but it’s clear he belongs here. She straightens up.

“I can wait for you outside,“ she starts, “this seems like an Ash Folk thing—“

She stops when his hand catches her wrist and lays flat over hers.

It’s a strange thing, she’s been doing nothing but touching him since he got back, but it’s been as a healer. He’s healed now. She just imagined that he wouldn’t want to be touched after he was. But he lays his hand over hers and their eyes lock.

“I don’t think I should be here, as a Sky Fey,” she says.

“I’ve been to theirs,” he says.

“That’s not the same,” she argues.

He looks at her and she tells herself there’s no reason for it to feel like the air has gotten heavier. He’s wrong, she doesn’t want to be here to desecrate the place like she imagines he was when he invaded the Sky Folk. From what she’s seen of the Ash Folk capabilities, that’s not something she wants to anger. He looks at her quietly, patiently, like he could spend the rest of his days looking at her and it makes the most peculiar feeling spread out from somewhere in her chest.

“You belong here as much as any Ash Folk,” he says, dropping his hand, “you can go if you want,” he adds, “but you belong.”

Pym knows the heat rising in her face has nothing to do with where they are. She’s certainly not having a physical reaction to the place. She doesn’t want to think of what she might be having a physical reaction to or why the sight of Arthur laughing on the deck of the boat is suddenly flashing through her head.

“A-alright,” she says, “alright,” she finally manages to break their staring, “But keep the lights going, we don’t need either of us breaking our necks down here.”


	33. Chapter 33

Lancelot doesn’t know how he knows this place, only that he does.

The whispers tell him he needs to be here, for what reason he cannot say. He cannot even fully understand them, the speak a language he doesn’t know. But he knows they need him to be here. He should question it, but he follows it instead. He’s heard these whispers before. He knows they don’t mean him the harm that they should. Behind him he sees Pym carefully turn, taking as much of it in as she can. If the whispers don’t want her hear, he’s willing to go against them. But they don’t seem to feel much either way on the matter. He’s not sure why she cannot hear them though.

He feels different.

He doesn’t know why the roots of that particular plant wanted to connect with him or what the significance is, but he’s acutely aware of the Fire inside him. In a way that he knows he wasn’t before. It feels like it’s more of a struggle to hold it back, like it’s reaching for his fingertips constantly. Like it’s trying to come out. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to do something or just stand here. The whispers are quiet things that just seem to grow louder when he’s doing something they feel strongly about. He tries to remember how he knows this place but it feels like a dream, or like something he isn’t sure he was ever supposed to see.

He walks back over to the wall, following the path from his Mark to the window of earth. The root that he reached for is gone. Without fully understanding why, he pushes his fingers into the dirt. The whispers get louder. His fingers hit something wet and cold. They come out dark. It’s the smell of it that catches him off guard. He’s smelled this before. Smell has guided him throughout all of this, but this specific one is much stronger. He closes his eyes and breathes in, letting his mind follow.

His mother brought him here.

He still cannot see her face, but he can hear her voice. Not the words, but the tones of it. There’s a sharp pain in his fingers and then he feels her press his hands into the dirt. She helps him paint his marks and then the mark of their family. He feels himself swell with pride. When they leave, she promises that they will return when he’s a man. As they leave she takes the Fire with her. He’s excited to one day do that as well.

Lancelot opens his eyes.

He’s not small anymore, the dirt is much closer to his face. He doesn’t need to be lifted up. He turns from the wall and walks over to Pym. She looks up at him curiously and he knows she’s probably not going to like what he’s about to ask for.

“I need your knife,” he says.

“Now you really want to replicate the day we met,” she says, “can’t you keep your blood inside you for one day?”

This place is sacred, it’s very hard not to smile.

“Tomorrow,” he promises.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she says, handing him the blade.

If there is a knife that is supposed to be a part of it he’s out of luck. Still he reasons that he has to try. He pricks his fingertips in rapid succession and presses his hands into the dirt again. His blood mixes with all of his kin who have done it before. Deep in the earth, though he cannot see it, he feels the roots reaching for his skin. He has to hold his Fire back with skill. When he pulls his hands free they are covered in the clay. He’s spent enough time loathing his own marks that he can trace them well enough. But he looks over at Pym.

“Are the Marks covered?” He asks. Though she has no clue what is going on, she comes forward.

“Almost,” she says, “can I?” He nods and she touches the clay, “it’s cold,” she remarks, carefully she touches the edges of the lines, inspecting her work in the light, “now they are.”

He nods his thanks and goes over to where his Marks are laid out on the ground. He lets his instinct and whatever fragment of memory he has guide him as he presses his fingers to the outline, painting it in the same mud. He realizes he’s holding his breath when he hears Pym forcibly exhale. It shouldn’t surprise him that nothing happens in the room. He doesn’t remember anything big happening in his memories and it seems like the kind of thing he would remember. It feels horribly anticlimactic. After all, after everything that he’s done why would a place like this reveal anything to him. Why would any Ash Folk ritual work? Even if his logic says that he’s dealing with a half remembered thing and probably missed something. He looks up at Pym who smiles sympathetically.

“Was something—“

“I don’t remember,” he says.

“Well you turned off your Fire without praying, so that’s something,” she offers.

She’s right about that. He flattens his hands against the stone and goes to stand up when he feels a narrow ridge in the stone. He doesn’t know why but it cannot be a mistake that it’s there. He doesn’t know why but he can feel Fire. Not his, but there is Fire down there. He closes his eyes and focuses, sending his own Flame to join it. There’s a moment of hesitation and then something unbearably hot shoots up and presses to his fingertips. He keeps his face smooth, the heat is difficult to bear but some part of him knows to keep his fingertips there. The clay takes some of the heat, but he can feel it still. He waits and then releases the Fire, not taking it back. It settles somewhere deep in the earth of this place. He doesn’t know how he knows but he is aware of it.

“Lancelot?”

He opens his eyes to the pitch black and Pym’s voice. He rises up and directs the fire to his hand. He wasn’t expecting for his Fire to be different. The Flames have taken on an almost blue tint, they seem darker. But most incredibly though they cast light around, when Pym looks at him her eyes don’t water like they usually do. He closes his fingers around the Fire and it goes out with barely a thought, only to reignite a moment later with the same ease.

“What was that?” She asks, “what happened?”

“There’s a Fire down there,” he explains, “from the Ash Folk. I added mine,” he can’t explain fully what it feels like or what has just happened.

“It sounds like a coming of age ritual,” she says, “you needed a level of skill to do it.” she points out, “like becoming a Knight.”

It makes a logical amount of sense. There are none to tell him for sure. He realizes for the first time that the whispers are gone. He cannot hear them. He’s not sure what they are or why he can’t all of a sudden, or if he ever will again. But he can see the correlation.

“The voices stopped when I did that,” he admits. Pym nods but he sees some shadow cross her face, the same as when he mentioned them earlier, “what is it?”

“I’ll explain when we leave,” she says.

He nods and takes her hand, following his nose back to the stairs. The Fire has gone out, but he still brushes his fingertips against the wall as they pass. Like he remembers seeing done before. When they make it up and back onto the island, he extinguishes the flames and pulls the stone back over the opening. Straightening up, he looks at Pym.

“Nimue used to say the Hidden sounded like whispers,” she admits, “they would talk to her in a way I’ve never heard them talk to another,” she looks up at him, “they would guide her.”

He thinks back to pursuing the Sky Folk, to hunting Nimue down. He remembers hearing the whispers a handful of times. Even in the weeks leading up to the initial attack. He thinks of how radically his life has been changed by the Sky Folk. But he can’t say that this was their plan, after all he was guided to the Sky Folk to destroy them. He’s killed many and the survivors he saw take off to Avalon. He could say that the Ash Folk might have accepted him because he is Ash Folk, on a genetic level, why the Hidden would speak to him he has no idea.

“Have you heard them?”

“Oh, well, no,” Pym says, “my knot magic is the most I can connect to them. Squirrel says that he’s heard them, Bors as well but you’ve seen what they can do,” she gives a small smile that’s almost too filled with self loathing to be called that, “Gawain heard them once,” she says, “but Nimue had the strongest connection to them, I’m honestly surprised any of our magic is working here. They must want to protect you.”

“Or they are following the High Summoner,” he counters.

“Please, I’m only that because there’s no-one else,” he opens his mouth but she waves off the argument, “are we supposed to leave the clay on you? It’s cracking off.”

He looks down at his hands and realizes she’s right. He can feel it on his marks. He works a thumb underneath the clay. It peels off but a darker stain has taken to his fingertips. When he peels it off his face, he looks at her.

“Do they look different?”

She steps closer and takes the back of his hands, looking at his fingertips. She peers at his eyes and nods.

“They’re a bit darker, they match your fingertips.”

He frowns and picks up her hand, turning it over. He’s not sure how he missed the burn across it before. He looks at her and she shrugs.

“I didn’t realize the handle was iron,” she admits. He feels anger and guilt churn in his stomach. When she goes to pull her hand back, he closes his fingers around it. There’s no force behind it but she stop all the same, “it’s fine,” she says, “i was more focused on getting it out of you, I barely noticed.”

“I didn’t realize you were hurt,” he says.

“You’ve been a little busy dying,” she points out.

“I was trying to stay alive,” he counters, “we need to get something on this so it doesn’t get infected.”

She sighs but seems to know better than to argue. As they start to head back she stops dead. He turns and sees that she’s looking at the trees. There’s a pair of hawks in them. He looks at her skeptically as she moves forward quietly, touching the side of the tree. He watches the Fingers grow on her as the branches. Twist and knot themselves into a cage around the birds. There’s some meat in there as well. He looks at her skeptically as she comes back to him.

“Tristain wanted the birds,” she says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, “but she said she’s consider sparing your life if she had them,” he doesn’t like the sound of that, “though I imagine someone will have to take care of them while she’s still proving she’s not here to kill us all.”

Messages would be the most likely reason, but he’s never seen one of these animals carry a message around the Trinity Guard. Falconry is something nobles like a Uther participate in. The Trinity Guard where their wealth in more subtle ways. These birds are impressive though they are smaller than the ones he’s seen Uther using. But given they are for Tristain, he thinks that’s probably for the best. Before there can be more distractions, he focuses on getting them back to the tent to get whatever is left of the poultice. Inside he sees Squirrel still asleep. He grabs the pouch and the bandages and comes back outside.

“Give me your hand,” he says.

She sighs and extends it as he smoothes the herbs over the burn and wraps her hand.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” He asks.

“No,” she says. He gives her a hard look, “I would tell you, now that you’re not on death’s door,” she says, “I’m fine. Better than fine. This is nothing,” she adds, nodding towards her hand.

“What else is wrong?” He asks, not fully believing her words.

“Nothing, I was worried about you,” she admits, “and I’m just relieved you’re back. When they brought you onto the ship and the earth didn’t work and Morgana was there, I was afraid we were too late. Though we thought we were going to have to follow you to the Vatican,” she cringes at the thought. He agrees. He could hold on but what would be left of him is anyone’s guess. Something occurs to her and she pulls her hand back, digging in her pocket, “we were going to pretend to be pilgrims,” she explains, “anyway Guinevere gave me one of her jackets and I used the embroidery thread to fix these,” she says.

It’s his paternoster beads.

She’s fixed the red tassel. They look cleaner than he’s seen them in a long time. Maybe they should look hateful after what has just happened, but the knowledge that they’ve been with her makes them feel safe. She doesn’t hold them out to him, waiting for his reaction. She’s not expecting him to stand up. He stands up and reaches into the hidden pocket in his pants and pulls out her amulet. She looks stunned at the sight of it.

“It kept me sane,” he says, “gave me something to focus on,” he offers it back to her, “thank you.”

She takes it after a moment and he accepts the beads back.

“You knew I was coming, didn’t you? That we wouldn’t let you just be taken by them?” He nods, “good, because when they took me I knew you were going to come after me. Though it was days so I wasn’t sure if you knew—“

“I knew,” he promises.

She glances away and he sees the pink colors her cheeks. When she tucks a piece of her hair behind her ears, a bit of the clay stains her cheek. He can’t stop himself from reaching out and carefully wiping it off. She seems surprised at the touch and he almost asks if he’s done something wrong, but she shakes her head.

“Thank you, it seems wrong to wash it off,” she admits, “I’m not sure why.”

“Here,” he wraps her fingers as best he can with the extra bandages, “it should be dry soon.”

She nods her head, murmuring another thank you. He’s not sure why he rubs his thumb against the tassel of his beads. He has no right to mix the two sides that have destroyed each other, but the beads look right being stained somehow, like they reflect the rightness he’s come to feel about himself.

Pym moves closer and for a long time they sit on the wall and watching the stars.


	34. Chapter 34

She almost thinks it’s all a dream when she wakes up.

But the fact that she wakes up with dry eyes and not from some nightmare tells her it isn’t. Lancelot’s back and alive. They’re both against the rubble of a wall, her head is against his shoulder and his is resting on hers. Thankfully, even though it’s dawn he is not about to ride off into battle. They aren’t even in the church. They’re on the Ash Folk’s island. She realizes they’ve managed to fall asleep outside of the tent. Not only that, they aren’t alone. She looks up to see Bedivere is looking at them, as though best judging how to go about waking them up. When he sees she’s awake, relief shows on his face. She nudges Lancelot and he opens his eyes as well.

“Good morning,” Bedivere says, “I’m sorry to intrude—“ he hesitates and the fact that they are outdoors seems to make his argument moot, “but the other boy is upset his tree has been ruined and—understandably—wants nothing to do with me.”

They get to their feet and she stretches out her neck. In the dawn light Lancelot’s marks do look darker, as do his fingertips. The wound on his stomach is larger than she wishes, but she knows cutting away the damage was the only way. There are still some darker lines fanning out from burns she missed on the surface. Everything else seems completely healed. Including the brand on his skull, though that is more raised. And if she looks at the back of his hands and his face, she can see the faintest marks from the iron net. But nothing like he should have. She’s grateful she bit her tongue during that ritual, if only because of the healing. She glances at the tent and Lancelot shakes his head, following her to where Bors is with his trees.

“Sorry about that,” she says quickly, “I promised Tristain she could have some hawks.”

“But you hurt it!” Bors protests, “it was the strongest one.”

“I can put it back,” she promises, “we just need something for the hawks.”

“But Lancelot—“

“I’m alright,” Lancelot cuts in.

Bors turns and looks at him before running forward and hugging him. Lancelot seems surprised by the gesture, but he returns the embrace. Unfortunately that seems to be the moment Bors remembers his old fear and throws himself back, nearly topping into her. Pym catches his shoulders and helps him right himself before he can careen down the hill and another healer will be needed. Lancelot gives her a somewhat amused look as Bors shoves the hair out of his eyes. Bors inspects him and looks at the tree and then back to him. Then without another word he takes off running back to where the others are.

“Well he seems alright,” Bedivere says.

“I wasn’t expecting him to be here,” Lancelot says.

“I didn’t realize he came,” Pym admits, “Squirrel must have snuck him on at the last moment.”

She understands Bors’ fear better than she understands Squirrel’s bravery, at least where meeting Lancelot is concerned. Though seeing Lancelot meet it with his quiet understanding is different. She remembers them both being lost and upset in their own ways when they met. Now it seems as though Lancelot has found his place, which seems to be some mix of all the places he’s been. It’s fitting, for a man who has been cut up and torn apart like him. That the whole that suits him would be a patchwork of all that he’s done. But there’s a peace to it and to him she may not have thought at first.

“You look better,” Bedivere says.

“I healed,” Lancelot replies, “last night.”

“It makes sense that would sometimes be easier to do that without everyone watching,” Bedivere remarks.

Lancelot inclines his head but doesn’t fully agree or disagree. Pym can see that things are tense between them. She can’t exactly blame Lancelot for that, though the way he is looking and towering over the Priest doesn’t help. It occurs to her that Lancelot has brought people who would probably not be allowed onto the island here. But she imagines the Paladins are a special kind of forbidden. Lancelot hasn’t used any of his abilities in front of Bedivere previously. Whatever is passing between them, she lets it go on for a moment longer until it becomes clear that neither of them have any idea what to say.

”So what were you up so early?” She asks.

“Praying,” Lancelot says when Bedivere looks away, “for the ones I killed.”

“I don’t agree with what they did,” Bedivere cuts in before she has a chance to think too much on the matter, “nor am I sad they’re dead, but they did still die.”

Pym bites her lower lip, not sure if any of them are supposed to say something. She can’t tell him not to do that, though Lancelot probably could. She thinks of the cross branded into Lancelot and forces herself not to think of him being dragged onto the boat, more dead than alive with that horrible knife sticking out of him. She’s not sure those men deserve prayers. At the same time, she knows Lancelot probably didn’t deserve to be cared for the way he was or Tristain spared.

“Wait here,” Lancelot says after a moment. He walks away.

“I think he was speaking to me,” Bedivere says.

“I’ll wait with you,” Pym offers.

He nods. It’s not long before Lancelot comes walking back. Before Pym can say anything, she sees he’s bringing Tristain with him. Squirrel as well, though if she had to guess he went for a Tristain and Squirrel followed. He’s thrown a shirt on as well, though he remains barefoot. Tristain looks around skeptically.

“Let’s go.”

They make their way down to where the ships are. The great one the Paladins had is a wreck, it’s been swept against the shore and tipped, like the sea is spilling out of it. Lancelot looks at it impassively, Tristain seems confused. She’s not sure what anyone else is feeling. Neither is Bedivere. He looks at the two of them and then at the ship.

“You should burn it.”

Pym jumps as Morgana appears behind her. She looks back at the others, half expecting someone to suddenly be injured or bleeding. But all of them are looking at Morgana. It’s kind of like being looked at by the hawks or some other kind of bird of prey. Though Pym knows they aren’t looking at her, it’s not comfortable to turn her back and be in between them and Morgana.

“You know that’s not why we’re here.”

“You still should,” she turns he veiled head, looking very directly at Lancelot, “it will slow them down.”

“She’s right,” Bedivere says.

“Of course I am,” she says, “I put the gold on your ship,” she says, “in my experience, it’s a lot easier to have a resistance or build an army when you can pay people,” she folds her arms and looks at Bedivere, “get on with it.”

“You’re making that difficult,” Pym says. Morgana looks at her.

“Am I not welcome?”

“Of course you are,” Bedivere says and suddenly everyone is looking at him, though he seems far more comfortable in that position, “all are welcome.”

“I’d rather die again,” she says, “I just want to see the ship burn.”

Pym turns away from her and Bedivere flounders for a moment before he takes out his prayer beads. Pym watches out of the corner of her eye as Lancelot and Tristain fold their hands and lower their heads. She hates seeing Lancelot in his old haircut with the cross on his skin. She, Squirrel and Morgana stand there quietly as Bedivere prays aloud and blesses the water and the ship. When he’s done, Lancelot steps across the stones the rest of the way. He glances back at them before touching his hand to the nearest part of the ship. The bright green Flames starts to spread across the hull and over the top, cocooning the ship. There’s smoke but not nearly as much as she was expecting, as if the Fire itself is consuming it.

Except that’s not it, not entirely.

The Fire consumes it, but where the Fire meets the water an odd golden glow flickers. At first she thinks it might be a rock or an odd fish, but another flashes, then another. They don’t just flicker so much as they seem to roll, one after another and another until there’s more than she can count. As the sun rises she could almost think it’s a trick of the light but she knows in her gut that it isn’t. When she looks back, she sees everyone is watching the Fire. She rolls her eyes at herself, forgetting who she’s standing next to.

“They’re beautiful,” Morgana says.

“It is,” Pym agrees, forcing her gaze back towards the Fire. It hurts less to look at, even with the amount there is. Like it’s been tempered, “he’s come a long way.”

“I was talking about the Hidden. They’re beautiful,” Morgana repeats, “I didn’t think they’d look like minnows.”

Something cold slides down her spine and her eyes drag to the gold dots. Now that Morgana has said it, she can see them. Like her words have given her eyes some kind of permission they lacked. Which is ridiculous. She’s never seen them. She’s not that kind of Fey. The strongest see the Hidden, the kind that are born with strength that she doesn’t have. Not to mention after what her uncle did, embarrassing the High Summoner, her family had offended the Hidden. Why on earth would they appear to her. She manages a strained sound when she tries to laugh. Some sound she hasn’t made since she got dragged in front of Guinevere and told that if the Ale went bad she was going to be thrown overboard.

“That’s just the light,” she says.

Morgana is veiled but she doesn’t need to see her face to know the look she’s getting. Pym doesn’t want to talk about whether or not the Hidden have decided to appear to her. She’s been able to use her magic to get to Lancelot quicker, Bors has been able to use his to grow things to help him heal. They shouldn’t be able to do any of those things, not this far from their home. Even if that home has been burned to the ground. She knows the Hidden are here, even though they probably should have gone to Avalon. Maybe they did, Morgana being here makes the case that some things can go between this world and that one. Some, not all. Who is she to say who can and cannot do it. Regardless it doesn’t matter. The ship finally sighs and falls into the water, underneath she can see it continue to burn. The green shines up through the gold that continues to twist around the wreckage.

“Still?”

“Yes!”

It comes out louder than she intended and they all look at her. She feels strange with all the focus and goes to turn but Morgana appears in front of her. Then again. Like it’s a game. Pym feels her frustration build. She has no ability to see the Hidden, no business being in whatever game Morgana is playing. Maybe Morgana is here to take her and instead of being away, her lack of presence in Merlin’s vision is because she’s dead. The thought didn’t really occur to her, but she’s pushed it out of her mind for other things. She’s become a half decent healer, shouldn’t that be enough?

“Would you stop?” She asks Morgana after she’s managed to turn in a circle and had her appear at every angle, “if I say I see them will you let me go? Or are you here to take me?”

“Morgana.”

She almost feels annoyed at Lancelot’s intervention, but she knows that’s a stupid thing to feel. Morgana folds her arms and she feels the warmth that accompanies Lancelot as he stands much closer, as though daring Morgana to intervene. Given Morgana appearing to those who are about to die, it’s not a contest she wants to witness. What she’s not expecting is Tristain to come to her other side. She’s the one Morgana swings to and there’s nothing but defiance on the Ash Frey’s face.

“Finally out of your chains?” Morgana asks.

“Shouldn’t you be in Avalon?”

“Shouldn’t you be in a cell?”

Pym takes the opportunity to sidestep out of the argument. She doesn’t know why her face feels hot. It has nothing to do with Lancelot, for once. It has everything to do with the Hidden and Morgana’s ability to turn her head towards a prophecy she hasn’t even told her about. The Pendragon siblings seem to have a knack for pushing her thoughts past the denial she’s very happy to step in.

“Why did you ask if she was here to take you?” Lancelot asks.

“Oh, some stupid thing Merlin said,” she says with a wave of her hand, “did you see the gold lights?”

“No,” he says, “what stupid thing?”

There’s an edge to his voice that brings up something she thinks might be guilt. It isn’t a secret, not really. Not in any way that matters. She barely even knows if she believes it or if it’s true. And she knows that between him remembering and the fighting and being kidnapped, there hasn’t been time to say that there’s some insane thing Merlin’s been rambling about. Or that’s what she tells herself. The squirming inside her makes her feel like she lied.

“Merlin said that he saw a golden city,” she says, “that if he made it come to pass, he could be with Nimue. He said everyone was there, he saw you all,” she doesn’t know why she hesitates, “except me.”

Lancelot is silent and it’s the second time today when it’s felt like she can’t read him.

“When?”

“When what?”

“When did he say this?”

She cringes.

“When we were detoxing him?” She says and hates how her words come out as something more like a guilty question than a statement.

“That was weeks ago,” Lancelot says.

“I know,” she sighs. He keeps looking at her, she can see the mix of confusion and something else. She thinks there hurt on his face, “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret, it could just be him rambling. I don’t know, it hasn’t been as important—“

“It is,” he says, cutting her off. Frustration makes even his new features look more like his old ones. It makes him look more like he was a long time ago and Pym feels a wave of self loathing for putting him back there, “it’s important,” he says.

“It’s just a stupid thing he saw,” she says, “it’s nothing.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

She doesn’t really have a good answer for that. Reminding him of everything seems like the wrong thing to do. All of this seems wrong. She doesn’t know what possesses her to shove her hands in her pockets. Or to take a step back. Maybe because of what’s gone on in the cellar, it feels like some kind of lie. Like she’s done something wrong.

“I need to go check on Bors and the others,” she says, seeing his fingers come forward. She takes another step back, “make sure Morgana and Tristain don’t kill each other.”

And for reasons she can’t put into words, she flees.


	35. Chapter 35

“Did you know about Merlin’s vision?” He asks Squirrel.

“You mean the great adventure I’m gonna go on?” Squirrel shrugs, “it seems like a good guess. That’s what Knights do.”

He’s surprised she’s told no-one, then immediately realizes how foolish that is. Of course she’s told no-one. It’s Pym. She pushes everything aside or down until there is no other option, especially things that trouble her. Watching her run away stings more than he wants to admit. It reminds him of the weeks after Nimue, when she would flee from every conversation or touch, as if being near him or Squirrel was painful. She’s hidden this better, but the fact that she’s felt the need to hide it at all is troubling. Squirrel looks up at him.

“Did he have a different one?”

“Yes,” he says.

“About what?” He glances down at Squirrel who rolls his eyes, “you can’t tell me,” he says, folding his arms.

Lancelot would smile if it didn’t feel like there was a weight on his chest. He wants to go back to Morgana and demand she take him to Merlin so he can shake the answers out of the Druid. Or go back to the temple and question the whispers. He needs details or something, some compass point in the direction he needs to to go so he can murder whoever contributes to the future that does not involve her. Perhaps its the world that needs to be burned down. He finds he doesn’t quite have as much of a problem with that as he should.

“Merlin saw a vision of all of us in some great city,” he says, “except Pym wasn’t there.”

Squirrel glances at him but Lancelot finds his gaze keeps dragging to where Pym is supposed to be. She’s not there, apparently she and Bors went to see the horses. And though he wants to follow her, it feels as though his presence wouldn’t be welcome. He also doesn’t know what to say. And saying the wrong thing now seems like it will do more harm to the situation. He’s no fool, he knows that the saying the wrong thing now will just push her away. He doesn’t want that. Selfishly, perhaps, but after holding on to the knowledge that she was coming, he isn’t sure if he can stand the idea of her not being able to look at him again. He forces his gaze back to Squirrel who seems far less concerned than he was expecting. He doesn’t want to worry him but he also wants to know why.

“You don’t seem afraid.”

“Merlin didn’t know about Nimue,” Squirrel points out, “if he’s been having visions wouldn’t that have shown up?”

It’s a logical answer. Practical. Something like Pym might say if it was anyone else. But the fact that she has said nothing concerns him. It’s a bigger deal to her than she wants to let on. As if it is fathomable that any of them will allow that to be the future. They have dropped everything to run after him, surely she knows they would do the same for her. When she got taken, everyone would have gone after her if he had given them a chance. He had not considered if there would be ramifications to charging after her. He just knew that he could track better and was faster than bringing everyone, he knew that she was leaving a trail for him to follow.

Lancelot knew he had to get to her, he didn’t care about anything else.

“Why do you look worried?” Squirrel asks and then makes a noise of disgust, “are you two fighting again? What happened when you snuck off?”

“We don’t fight,” Lancelot corrects.

“Sure you do,” Squirrel says, “or you,” he pitches his voice up, “”don’t want the same things’,” he wrinkles his nose, “whatever that means.”

“That wasn’t a fight,” Lancelot says, “and you shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“Then I wouldn’t know anything,” Squirrel retorts, “it’s not like you say anything interesting anyway. It’s like listening to my parents.”

Squirrel seems like exactly the type to eavesdrop on his parents, Lancelot isn’t sure why he’s surprised. Maybe it’s more him saying that he and Pym sound like his parents that catches him off guard. It makes him think of Guinevere’s warning, of what them sleeping next to each other could do to Pym’s reputation and chances of marriage. He’s not a monk anymore, even if he’s been tonsured again. He doesn’t follow those beliefs. He didn’t take this willingly, not this time. He’s not sure how willing he actually was the first time or if he had just been twisted into thinking he was. But this time the cut and brand was forced upon him. The vows he’s willingly taken are as an Ash Fey. And as a Squire. But he knows his life no longer belongs to the Church. He can’t see that it ever will again.

“I wouldn’t be worried,” Squirrel says, “you’re back and Pym’s got us. We’ll keep her safe.”

Lancelot wonders if the worry shows on his face. Or if Squirrel is just good at reading him at this point. He hears the boy’s voice tighten when he says that he’s back. Like he needs reminding of the fact.

“Did I scare you, not being there?”

“Only a little,” Squirrel says, “Gawain looked after me and Pym tried, but she was really worried. We were going to pretend to be pilgrims so Bedivere was teaching her how to pray,” Squirrel looks up, “I stayed close! Like I promised.”

“You were going to pretend as well?”

“Of course I was,” Squirrel says, “I promised to stay close,” he glances at his feet and looks embarrassed, “besides I wanted to save you from the Paladins for once,” he looks up at him, “but you saved yourself which was way more amazing.”

Lancelot glances away, he doesn’t know if that’s true. If not for Arthur and Morgana he may have drowned before he saw any of them again. But that’s been true of every time he’s done this. There has always been another there, whether they turned to be friend or foe. He has never gone through these moments alone.

“Come with me,” he says. Squirrel obediently walks with him as he leads him to one of the houses. The blood is much more than he remembers bleeding, though the ease at which he was knocked out makes far more sense. Now that he isn’t being lead there to potentially die, he can see the pattern of his marks carved in several places, “this is where I grew up.”

“Wow!” Squirrel says, looking around, “here? How do you know?”

“The Paladins brought me here,” he says.

“Is that your blood?” Squirrel asks, looking at the mess, “ugh! Good thing Bors was here,” he bounces from that to deeper in the house, “hey that looks like your Mark,” he says, pointing at one of the carvings.

“It is,” Lancelot says.

“Are you remembering more?” Squirrel asks. Lancelot nods, “anything good?” He shrugs, “do you want to try that thing you had me do here? Where you and me close my eyes and imagine myself back home?”

Lancelot hesitates before he nods. So many horrible things have happened in the past few days, surely one more cannot hurt. Squirrel sits cross legged and Lancelot faces him. It feels strange to sit on a place he knew he did as a boy, but not in the same way that entering the Church did. The smell that lingers here is old and the wind has swept it away, it isn’t the same. Squirrel looks at him as Lancelot returns the gaze.

“You had me close my eyes,” he points out. He realizes Squirrel means to lead what they’re about to do and obediently closes his eyes, telling himself that it’s not going to work. He can at least try, “take a deep breath,” Squirrel instructs. Lancelot obeys, “think about waking up.”

Lancelot presses his lips together, wondering what strange thing has made him think of that instead of entering the house. His mind goes to waking up, the half remembered memory of the figure of his mother pressing her finger to the stone and winking at him across the flames. He remembers the feel of the affection more than anything else. Though some part of him shies away from the memory, he holds himself there. Laying under the blankets and watching her straighten up, her black stained fingers swinging by her sides as she checked on everyone before coming to him, dropping down. In his memory, he clamps his eyes shut.

“Think of the smells,” Squirrel’s voice floats to him and he pushes it out, straining with his younger self to opening his eyes as he feels his mother push her fingers through his hair.

“You’re coddling him,” a new voice comes, deeper but there’s no malice in it.

“Hush,” she says, not moving her hand, “he’s fine. He’ll join you after.”

There’s a sigh and he can hear the door closing. He feels relief through every fiber of his being at that time, even if as a man he feels dread. He hears her shift and her fingers trace his marks lightly. He wrinkles his nose and immediately smoothes it out. He’s pretending to be asleep, he realizes.

“Lancelot, you’re going to have to learn to shoot eventually,” she says, “he so wants you to come with him.”

“I will!” He hears himself saying and when he opens his eyes, the light makes it impossible to see her. Lancelot feels his frustration grow, “I just need more practice.”

The light eases. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. In his memory she’s very beautiful, with hair that matches his own. It spills down her shoulders in waves. He can pick out his features in her face, the same strong jaw and full lips, the shape of her eyes and sharp set of her cheekbones. He looks like her, even if their eyes are different colors. More importantly, it’s a more elaborate version of his own marks that paint her face. Though now both are as dark. He doesn’t know why it matters so much that they look the same. She sets her chin on her hand and smiles affectionately at him. There’s no anger like he’s felt in the past decades, just the affection a child should feel for their parents. It makes the betrayal worse somehow.

“Are you close?” She asks.

“Yes,” he says, “very close. Soon I’ll be able to do it with one strike, so none of them suffer—just like you taught us.”

She smiles wider and there’s pride in her eyes. She holds up her hand and he presses his palm to hers. He feels her Fire, the dark and tempered flame. And he feels the bright uncontrollable one he’s capable of rush to meet it. Their hands erupt in light, but she controls it. Twists it. It’s their secret way of commenting their promises to one another and Lancelot knows it means the world. Her Marks reflect the light. After a moment she pulls her flames back and his own seem to fall dormant.

“Go practice,” she says, nodding to the door, “watch for my signal, I’ll tell you when I’m heading to the Temple. Are you going to help me with the prayers?”

He nods. He knows that soon he’ll be a man and he probably won’t be allowed to help. She’ll have to choose some girl from the village. Or change the rules. He desperately hopes it’s the latter, his mom is very forward thinking. She can do anything. That’s why she’s the one in charge after all. He rolls out of bed and grabs his bow.

“Elaine!”

She turns toward the call of her name. That’s her name. He remembers her name. In his memory he heads for the door, even as the rest of him screams at the younger version to stay. Just for a moment. But he’s turning away. Past the pile of blankets he can see stirring at the commotion.

“Lancelot,” he whips towards her. She smiles, “take Hector with you.”

Lancelot’s eyes snap open. Squirrel is standing over his shoulder, shaking it. Lancelot can feel the sweat on his brow and he heart pounding. Elaine. He remembers his mother’s name and her face. Nauseatingly he can smell her. He doesn’t want to think about why. He gets to his feet. Squirrel looks at him nervously and Lancelot turns. He knows Squirrel will follow him. He feels sick as he moves down the path. He knows where it happened. He knows even though the smell should be gone. It should be but it’s woven into the grass, deep in the dirt.

“What are you looking for?” Squirrel asks.

Lancelot tries to smell, tries to remember, but it’s lost to the knot of panic. What if one of those gold masked men he burned was Hector? He has to remind himself that he could not smell them. He knows what other Ash Folk smell like, thanks to Tristain. He thinks of her disdain for him and pushes himself up, motioning to Squirrel as they set off. Morgana and Tristain are still squabbling and Bedivere is nearby, seemingly at a loss.

“Were there others?” He questions, walking to Tristain and Bedivere, “were there other Ash Folk?” There’s no response. He looks at Bedivere, “did they take anyone else?” He demands and the tone in his voice makes everyone stop.

“No,” Tristain says.

“I never heard of anyone else,” Bedivere offers, “why?”

“There were other Fey.”

He turns at the sight of Pym. Bors is standing besides her. Despite what transpired earlier and how afraid the others look, she meets his gaze. He forces himself to take a deep breath and focus. It’s easier to focus on his scent than anything else. It brings his mind back to the fear that it may not be there. What would it cost to ensure that doesn’t happen? He wants to press her on the other Fey she’s talking about, if there were rumors or if they were real. Is there a chance more Ash Folk survived? But the fear of what Merlin saw, what she thinks it means, turns over in his head like a sound drowning out the other noise. What would he do it keep it from happening. And the answer comes easily.

Anything.

He would do anything.


	36. Chapter 36

“We need to return,” Arthur says, almost regretfully, “if you want to return to this place, we can arrange that, but right now—“ he glances at the horizon, “it’s not a good idea to linger here,” he looks at Lancelot, “I’m sorry.”

Lancelot nods and walks back to the village. Arthur looks at her apologetically but she smiles at him. They all know that he’s right. They can’t linger here, even though she thinks that Lancelot could spend much more time here. Tristain too. Maybe they all could. But there will be time for that, for this, once they have a place to call their own. They didn’t stay in this world instead of going to Avalon to hide in an island. Maybe one day but today they have to set off again. Pym trails him back to the village, unsure if he is going to the temple or somewhere else. She finds him in the ruins of a house with a wide stain in front, it doesn’t take much guesswork to figure out what that is.

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” she says, “it didn’t seem that important and I—I didn’t want to think about it.”

He glances back at her and she wonders if she’s made a mess of things or if it’s inappropriate to bring this up now. Maybe he has other things he needs to think about. Something about leaving the island being at odds with him doesn’t feel right though. Even if far worse things have happened here. She remembers them disagreeing and wonders if he feels the same before immediately chiding herself. It’s selfish, of course it’s selfish. There are dozens of more important things going on and worse things happening. Especially after whatever transpired to get him in such a state. She hasn’t seen him like that since they were in the tent and her remembered what Father Carden and the Ash Folk did to him as a boy.

“You should have,” he says.

There’s a tone in his voice she doesn’t like, one that speaks of the man he used to be. She reminds herself where they are, what’s just happened. How terrible it was to discover he was gone after their disagreement. But it’s a tone she doesn’t like. One that speaks less of hurt and more of someone who is used to being informed. Even if the logical part of her says that they have shared everything with each other, more willingly than she would have expected, some illogical part of her rankles at it. At the expectation it seems to carry, the frustration at her. Like she’s disobeyed something.

“We were busy,” she replies.

“Busy with me,” he corrects, though there’s no tone to it then. She wonders if she’s imagined the previous one, “you should have said something.”

“Merlin’s stupid vision doesn’t compare to what happened with you,” she says, folding her arms, “who knows what he saw. It could be nothing. He could have misinterpreted—“ he raises his eyebrows and she rolls her eyes, “I don’t know. Those visions never mean what you think they do, that’s why they’re ridiculous.” 

She’s never been one for things like that. Maybe it’s some childish part of her that believes what everyone said about her family when her uncle shamed the High Summoner and her daughter. Nimue was always beloved by the Hidden. Pym was always told that they did not like to be forgotten or disrespected and somehow her family had managed to do both. What could they want with her except to punish her? It was better to keep those kinds of things like visions and golden lights away. Safer. Though safety never was Pym’s real concern.

“It’s not a comparison,” he says.

“We were busy,” she repeats.

“You cannot push things aside,” he says and she swears that tone is back.

Shame curls through her at the memory of her grief and her actions, but she still raises her chin.

“I’m not,” she says.

“You are.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She snaps.

They both seem surprised at her tone, apparently they are both regressing today. She wishes she could say her fear of him eclipsed her anger, but back then they both mixed together. Now it’s just anger. Instinctively she knows that there’s nothing she could do that would make him hurt her. Which makes not telling him feel a lot closer to lying than she wishes it did. She doesn’t know why the sound of him telling her what to do in this situation digs at her. They’ve been in so many others where he’s directed her and she’s followed without a second thought. Or she’s asked him for information and he’s given it or explained. He doesn’t immediately apologize. She isn’t sure if she’s in the wrong or he is, but she doesn’t know if she would believe it.

“I thought you told me everything after you talked about your grief,” he says. He hesitates, “why not this?”

He seems confused and she doesn’t blame him. It does feel more and more like running away from her grief. Worse, it speaks to the knots that her stomach has been tied into since he rode away, since he knelt before Tristain—maybe even all the way back on that pier when he froze and the fear of the Paladins was not enough to stop her from running back for him. She doesn’t know. But the connection starts to form more clearly as she stands there wrestling with his question. He seems to realize asking again his overstepping some line she’s drawn. She sees that impassive mask start to settle across his face.

“I didn’t want it to be real?” She offers, “I don’t know, the idea of being the only one who wasn’t there felt wrong. Talking about it felt like it was making it real,” she tries to smile, “besides I’d feel bad if Guinevere found out and tried to kill Merlin.”

He doesn’t return the gesture and she feels the smile die on her lips.

“I wouldn’t let it happen,” he says abruptly, “none of us would.”

“But if it’s right, I don’t want anyone being hurt because of me,” she says.

“I haven’t been,” he points out simply, the confidence in his skill making a not unpleasant shiver go down her spine, “I wouldn’t want to be in whatever vision he’s having.”

The intensity of his look draws her in, but not in the way the other one made her chafe. This one is more. More intense, more earnest, she’s not sure if there is even a name for it. She thinks of the trees cracking, the green fire, how many Paladins and Trinity Guards who wanted to hurt her now lay as dust on the forest floor. All to keep her safe. She can’t even say her and Squirrel, not if she counts the ones who kidnapped her. It’s just her. Which is insane, she has no place having so many people killed to keep her safe.

“I don’t think it’s up to you,” she says quietly. He almost looks alarmed, “I don’t think it’s up to anyone,” she stresses, “it’s like Nimue,” she feels her face grow hot. The suggestion that she has anything close to the destiny imbue does is preposterous, “not that I think I’m anything like that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

She nods. It doesn’t. Whatever reason Merlin had that vision or whether or not it’ll come to pass, it doesn’t matter. They cannot change something like that. No more than she could’ve made her uncle stay or kept Nimue here. Destiny will come for them all, whether they want it to happen or not.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to distract from what was going on with you,” she says, “we can’t do anything about Merlin’s vision but you and Merlin, there are things we could do to help you.”

He considers her words for a moment before he speaks again. The confusion is naked in his voice, but maybe for the first time there’s hurt in there too.

“Why do you think I couldn’t help you?”

The question seems to take the breath from her lungs. It’s not a question she’s sure she knows how to answer. They have gone through so much together, he’s saved her life from every kind of external threat. She’s just not sure if he or anyone know how to deal with the internal kind. Besides, what are those compared to things like the forces they all have to deal with on the outside?

“It’s not that,” she starts but the lingering guilt cuts her, “that would be like me trying to win a fight right now,” she says, “or something like that. You’d be better at learning that than I would be at learning how to fight like you do.” He doesn’t seem offended or hurt. He seems to know that she has a point, “it’s not a bad thing you haven’t exactly had the kind of life where your feelings were something you dealt with.”

He softens but doesn’t smile. No sarcasm falls from his lips. If anything he looks disappointed, or like he’s had some realization. They’re in the middle of a war. And even if they weren’t, she doesn’t know how that would even begin to look. Lancelot is just figuring out what he wants. How to be someone outside of the brainwashing and torture. It’s odd to see the emotions on his face when he looks so much like he did when they first met. Perhaps that’s why her mind keeps dragging back to that time.

“Then what is it?” He asks.

“I don’t—“ she stops, she could say she didn’t want to tell him. He would drop it if she asked. But he wouldn’t fully understand. She’s become used to being on the same page as him, in so many things. This feels like that page is ripping and she cannot stand making another tear in it, “I was afraid talking about it would make it real,” she says, “I guess the idea of the world where I don’t see you or Squirrel scares me. Which is silly.”

“Why?”

“Well soon you’ll be riding off on your own adventures. Hopefully safer than the ones we’re on,” she says, “once Gawain became a Knight we barely saw him. He had other duties.”

Surprise crosses his face and she wonders if he hadn’t considered that. It’s been lurking in the back of her head, though she knows if they survive long enough for him to become a Knight and Squirrel to go off on his adventures, they’ll be lucky. It’s that same feeling like when she was presented with the choice of going to Avalon. It makes her long for those awful first days when they were new to each other and the only things they had to look out for were themselves and the horses. She wants to go back to the person she was back then and tell her to savor the good parts of those days. No matter how silly the idea is at the time.

“Anyway,” she says, “I thought if we were all in the city in that vision together, maybe we all saw each other more often,” she continues, “but who knows, that’s not something we should worry about right now anyway.”

“But you are.”

She cringes.

“After what just happened, how could I not be?” She says.

His brows draw together and he takes a step forward.

  
“You don’t have to do that,” he says. She tries to hold his gaze but falters, glancing around the ruins. Even as she hears him come closer. She isn’t sure if he’s gotten warmer or if she’s just acutely aware of where he is now, “I want to help.”

“I know,” she says.

“I don’t care about a destiny that doesn’t include you and Squirrel,” he says.

“Nimue—“

“I’m not going to choose any destiny over you.”

It’s a selfish, horrible thing to think but she would be lying if it hadn’t crossed her mind. She half expects the whispers to come back and scream at them both until there’s nothing but their bones here. She’s not ready for how close he is when she looks back at him. His marks really are much darker than she thought. Instead of reflecting the sun, it seems like they absorb it.

“That’s a foolish thing to say,” she starts.

“I don’t think we have destiny’s that don’t involve each other.”

She’s quite certain that she had more to say but he’s peculiarly close and for some reason she can’t remember her train of thought. She can just look up at him. She thinks she should feel afraid, but she doesn’t. She feels something. It feels more like she’s swallowed those golden minnows or the Fey Fire, like there’s something living inside her throwing off heat.

“I don’t like thinking about destiny,” she says, and her voice doesn’t sound like she’s ever heard it.

“I don’t think we have lives without each other,” he says.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she gets out.

“I believe it.”

Her mouth goes dry at how he can simplify things that way. No matter what she feels about destiny, she knows that Lancelot believes things with his entire heart and soul. He doesn’t believe in half measures. Not when it comes to his beliefs. She’s used to it being about his faith. But he says it about them being in each other’s lives with the same firmness. She’s keenly aware of the prayer beads he has, how even his early beliefs he hasn’t given up on. The thought that devotion translates to this, to them, it makes her feel some combination of terror and excitement. All at the same time.

She feels quite helpless to do anything but look at him.

He returns her gaze just as intently. They’ve had moments like this before, but there’s always been someone to break them up. Or one of them has turned away. Doing that has always been more relieving than disappointing. As it stretches, she realizes she doesn’t want it to end. That the disappointment when it does will outweigh whatever the strange feeling is. Lancelot seems equally at a loss for whatever is going on. But neither of them moves from it.

“Do you?” He asks after a moment.

It takes her mind a moment to remember what he’s saying he believes in, but then she nods.

“I don’t know how to believe like you,” she admits. That kind of faith has always scared her until now.

He nods, though the gesture doesn’t break their gaze. She knows they have to, one of them has to. But she can’t make herself do it. The idea of someone coming in and finding them like this is—not something she finds she cares about. She actually finds she doesn’t care about anything. Not so long as the feeling can keep going. Even as she feels like it’s building to something.

“I can teach you to fight,” he says and his voice takes on that hoarse edge.

  
“I can tell you when I’m bothered,” she says.

He nods.

“If you want.”

“I do—“ she says, suddenly finding it difficult to make her throat work, “I don’t want to hide things from you.”

He nods again and she knows he believes her.

She finds she feels the same.


	37. Chapter 37

It hurts to see the island slip away.

Lancelot watches it as the boat heads out. He reminds himself of how different things are now. He’s not leaving this place a scared boy, surrounded by those who would do him harm. He’s leaving it as a man surrounded by those he loves. The people who have died here are long since passed into the Twilight. Their scent doesn’t lay heavy in the air, the smoke doesn’t blanket the island like it used to. It’s alright to leave, he has the freedom to come back.

He’s free.

“I’m sorry to rush us off,” Arthur says, joining him on the deck.

“You were right,” he says, “we need to return,” Arthur nods, “I’ll explain what happened to her, you won’t be in trouble with Guinevere.”

“Of course I will,” Arthur says, “I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t.”

It’s a joke but he can see the strain on him. Lancelot knows the thought of another Ash Folk, someone he is related to, being out there in the world is crippling to him. He can’t imagine what he would do if he saw him again. Despite her vast power, Morgana is on the ship with them. She claims not to trust they’ll make it back without getting into trouble, he understands she has a point. He imagines it’s easy and difficult for Arthur to have her back. He doesn’t envy him for being in the middle of such an emotional storm. The physical storms are easier to understand sometimes.

“You won’t be in trouble alone,” he amends.

Arthur smiles at that.

“Well, that’s a comfort,” he says and on anyone else it might sound insincere. But Lancelot knows he means every word, “but maybe we should have Goliath waiting, just in case.”

Lancelot smiles, he can see the logic in that. It’s certainly not the worst idea. They lapse into a comfortable silence, one that Lancelot never thought he would share with a man who he had tried to kill. The only clothes he has are the ones the Paladins dressed him in and it’s more comforting to be in them than he wishes it was. Pym has fixed the seams and buckles with a whisper of her magic. The weight of them is familiar. He feels like himself. He also doesn’t feel cold as they head further out to sea. He’s pulled his hair as much as he can over the brand on his skull and can only hope the hair will fill it in quickly. The last time the cross was cut into his scalp, this time it’s been branded. He isn’t sure of what that will do.

It makes his back itch.

He supposes it was just a matter of time before it returned. He know that his back is healed, he knows the itch never really went away. But he feels it again, lurking under his skin. He can’t tell if what he did makes it worse or if that’s in his head. He knows he didn’t want to do it, no part of him desired that. But he knows that he did it all the same. Does his skin know the difference? The reason? He isn’t sure. The itch seems to grow sharper, more urgent. Worse, he can feel it on his scalp too. Like his body aches for what they did to him. He would focus on the island but seeing that makes something much deeper in him ache.

“I need to speak to Pym,” he says.

He finds her making sure Bors and Squirrel aren’t seasick. It’s easier to do that on the deck. She looks over at him as he walks to them. Something must show on his face. His old clothes make Bors look afraid for a moment but he recovers faster, tugging at Squirrel to follow him. He looks around and can see they are more or less alone but people are still too close. Pym seems to realize the same thing and leads him away, into the cabins above the deck. They’re more opulent than he’s been in, more like what he would imagine a merchant ship would be. She closes the door and looks at him.

“What is it?” she asks.

“My back,” her gaze softens. She must know, she saw it and healed it, “I did it to slow them down,” he says, “I didn’t want to do it,” he doesn’t know how to say what he’s trying to, “it’s back, it’s—worse.”

“Take your cloak off,” she says.

He obeys, lowering himself down to his knees. She walks behind him and pulls back the collar of his shirt, looking at the marks. She digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and he nearly collapses with the relief of it. The itch eases as viciously as it came. He’s hyperaware of the hateful symbol branded onto his scalp and how close her breath comes to it. But he focuses entirely on the feeling of her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders and back.

“What else did they do?” She asks.

“The brand and the tonsure,” he says, “they helped me with the whipping. The nets. The knife,” he recites, “and they drugged me,” he fights a noise as she digs into the top of the old scar Father Carden gave him, “they wanted me to look as I did.”

“You don’t,” she cuts in, “not to anyone who knows you.”  
“They didn’t,” he says, “they didn’t know me,” he says, “it was just to look like the Weeping Monk.”

“You say that like it’s a different person,” she says.

“To them, it is,” he says.

She’s silent for a moment before she comes in front of him. At this angle he has to look up to see her. She looks down at him with no pity or fear, maybe just the slightest bit of sadness for what he’s gone through. Mostly with determination. She sits down in front of him and holds her hand out.

“Give me the hand you use,” she says.

He puts it in hers and she digs her thumbs into the heel of it. He’s surprised at how it feels. He’s back is what aches but the muscles in his arm and shoulder seem to relax as she does it.

“Give me your other hand,” she says. He looks at her, “I know you’re good with using both.”

She does the other as well. He feels more balanced out after. He wasn’t expecting that. It feels more like he can breathe. The itch of his back is a more manageable thing now. He can worry about his scalp later.

“Better?”

“Thank you,” he says. She nods. Before she can fully drop his hand he turns it and catches hers, “how’s your hand?”

“It’s itchy but alright,” he looks at her, “actually itchy,” she adds, “it’s scabbing.”

He looks down at her hands and sees for the first time that her fingertips are discolored. His fingertips are stained dark from the clay. Hers are a lighter wash, but stained none the less. She’s marked by his Folk. He doesn’t know if that is wrong to her, he almost feels worry at the idea that it is. His eyes drag from her fingertips to her face.

“You’ve been marked,” he says.

“I know,” she dips her head, “I hope that’s alright with you—“

“Of course it is,” he cuts in.

“Alright,” she says.

“Are you alright with it?”

“Oh,” she says, “yes. I mean, it seems like we’re all one Folk now right?” He nods, oddly relieved that she’s alright with it, “do you feel sea sick?”

“No,” he says, “you?”

“No,” she replies, “I’ve been on a boat more these past few months than I ever thought I would be. But this might be the nicest one.”

He follows her gaze around the room. It’s certainly the most opulent. It reminds him of Uther’s and the Pope’s tents, the great cathedrals he’s seen a handful of times. They must have stolen a merchant ship to come and get him. The ones who took Pym burned Guinevere’s original boats. Though knowing her, he imagines it was no great hardship to take this one. The Paladins have a presence where they’re going, but more of a navy would be helpful if they are to take the land and defeat Uther.

He gets to his feet and extends his hand, helping her up. He realizes for the first time that she’s also in her old dress, the one he first saw her in. He’s grown almost accustom to seeing her in Guinevere’s borrowed clothes. They’ve all been hastily repaired by Pym’s magic and cleaned as best as possible, but the smell of their adventures lingers on both of them. They both look worse for the wear, he supposes, but also very much like themselves.

“Did anyone sleep in this room?” He asks.

“I don’t think so,” she says, “I wasn’t really paying attention,” he frowns in confusion, “I was more concerned with rescuing you and making sure Squirrel was near.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not well,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Bedivere kept an eye on me.”

That surprises him. He had asked him to make sure that Tristain got her confession. Hopefully to help turn her to their side He hadn’t asked anyone to look after Pym, he certainly hadn’t expected that Bedivere would go out of his way to do it while they rushed to save him. A part of him wants to forgive, to finally have the bond that the Church forbade them to have. The rest of him remembers the brand pressed into his skull and knows that only a fool would blindly forgive. He accepted kindness from Father Carden and will pay for that for the rest of his life.

“I don’t trust him,” he says.

“I don’t either,” she replies, “I think he’s on our side, but I don’t trust him fully,” he looks at her curiously, “I didn’t trust you for a long time,” she points out.

He nods at the practicality of it, relieved they seem to be on the same page about it. They cannot make the mistake the Moon Wings did of trusting every member of the Church because of how things worked out with one. He trusts Bedivere more than she probably trusted him in the beginning, but it’s still wise to be careful. With him and with Tristain. The smartest of them will be careful with him as well when he returns. He knows where his loyalties lay, but he cannot blame anyone for being suspicious. Especially now that he looks so much like he did before. His fingers brush against the brand, half hidden by his hair but when he feels the small ridge he snatches it back. It feels like the brand is still hot, he half expects his fingertips to be burned. But they are just their usual darkened color, though that will take some getting used to.

“Arthur did too,” her face turns almost deadly serious, if not for the smile she has to fight, “but I think he can be trusted.”

He glances away, disarmed by her humor. As usual. Arthur can be trusted. Of all the fantastical things in this world, the things he’s seen and been a part of, finding a truly good man among all of this violence might be the most unbelievable. He’s not sure he believes it, but time and again Arthur rises to the occasion and proves the sword has chosen correctly. Once again. Or perhaps it simply chose Nimue and she was smart enough to recognize the strength of Arthur’s heart and lend it to him. He still cannot believe that it was Arthur who threw himself off the boat for him, who pulled him out of the depths. Not too long ago he remembers them trying very hard to kill each other. Of all the people who could understand him, a man blood like that is not what he was expecting.

“I guess we need to save him from Guinevere,” he says.

“Oh that’s right,” Pym says, “she’s going to kill him. Wait, come with me.”

She grabs his hand and yanks him out of the room before he can ask which of those he is supposed to do. But she leaves him on the deck and runs below. When she comes back up, she has his swords tucked under her arm. He’s not surprised to see them, he threw them off after all. But he’s surprised that they’ve been given to her. The mud he dropped them into has been meticulously cleaned off and they look as though they’ve been treated and cleaned.

“Squirrel and Gawain cleaned everything,” she says, “so it would be ready for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking them from her.

The weight of them is wonderfully familiar. The blades were made for his hands and his hands alone. All the evil they’ve done and holding them still feels as though he has a limb back. Perhaps because of all the evil that he’s done. Doing good is the only thing they can do. The only chance that they have. He would no more cast the blades off than he would leave Goliath behind. He puts them on and feels even more like himself.

“Do you feel better?” She asks.

“I feel like myself," he admits, "Do you?” He asks, "feel better?"

She laughs and nods and something in him relaxes at the sound.

“Actually, I do.”


	38. Chapter 38

It’s the first night with no drugged sleep for any of them.

Pym knew that when Lancelot came back it would not be easy, but as she told herself during their time apart as long as he came back, they could figure the rest out. But now that it’s nightfall, she’s concerned. They all saw him. She doesn’t care what anyone may say about seeing people on the battlefield dead, seeing their friend in the state Lancelot was in isn’t easy. It shouldn’t be easy. If it ever is, something has gone terribly wrong. And Lancelot, she can’t imagine what he would dream about. The healer in her wants to make everyone drink something to help them sleep, but she knows that’s not the right thing to do. Still she can’t quite stop the stab of nerves when Kaze announces she’s going to sleep.

“I have things, if people need help,” she blurts out.

“Thank you,” Kaze says, “but no Paladin is interrupting my sleep” she glances at Bedivere, Lancelot and Tristain,“former or otherwise.”

Most of them say something similar. Pym wonders if it’s her own skill that makes them nervous, but Lancelot fell asleep with no urging. She doesn’t know how Kaze can make going to sleep so defiant, but she’s impressed by it. The ship may be opulent but it’s a ship. She almost feels at home on them by now. Everything has worked out but she’s still terrified of closing her eyes. Even though she’s tired, even though she’s not the one that got kidnapped—even though she’s managed to successfully fall asleep since they got Lancelot back. Even for only a few hours. She feels ridiculous over thinking things, especially as everyone start to peel off to turn in except for those on watch.

“Are you joining the watch?” She asks Lancelot.

“I’m forbidden,” he says, looking perturbed at it, “even though I’m fully healed.”

She doesn’t know why she finds that relieving. Especially because the look on Lancelot’s face says he will not take to being kept from doing his duty for very long. She has to remind herself that he’s healed and armed and keeping watch on a ship is probably the easiest task he’ll have. It also shouldn’t be endearing to see him almost look like he’s pouting. Keeping watch, using his skills to help, it’s something he desperately wants to do. But that also needs to be tempered with him knowing he doesn’t have to do it. He’s valued here for more than just his skill. The person he is comes first.

“You could still probably use the rest,” she says.

“I’m healed,” he repeats.

“I know,” she says, “he’s just trying to help,” he doesn’t look convinced, “and he also probably remembers you didn’t like boats.”

Lancelot mulls it over in his head and seems to see her point, even if he doesn’t like it. Pym finds herself strangely relieved that he does, though she cannot say why. It’s not as though they have disagreed on much since they’ve been reunited—or even before that, if she thinks about it. Perhaps that’s why it was so jarring. She never expected to be hurt or upset about disagreeing with someone whose opinion she never thought would matter. Though she supposed it’s time to give up the ghost on that front. His opinion does matter. The thought of losing him was as paralyzing as the thought of losing anyone else she cared about. If she forced herself to honestly, it may even have been more so.

His absence felt like missing a piece of herself.

The thought threatens to make her blush, which is why she tries to shove it back. She is used to being surrounded by powerful people, she’s not used to allowing herself to need them. His words about ignoring a destiny that doesn’t include her keep turning over in the back of her head, almost like a song. She half wishes it would stop. She knows that none of the people have passed have had the kind of choice where what they wanted truly matters, she doesn’t think they wanted to go. Nimue tried so hard to run. The thing that settles something like hope in her chest is that he may be right. If there is such a thing as destiny, if she is vain enough to believe that she has one, theirs may include each other. Why else would it feel so horribly wrong when they are apart?

“Pym?” She jerks at the sound of her name to see Lancelot looking at her curiously.

“Sorry,” she says, feeling the heat she’s fought against rush through her face, “I got lost in my thought,” she says, “did you say something?”

“No,” he says, “you seemed lost.”

“Oh.”

She’s still quite unsettled at being read like he can read her, though she has to admit it’s a two way thing. The same way he can look at her and know how she is lost, she can look at him and see the worry that she thinks most others would miss. Worry that she knows she helped put there when she pushed everyone away in her grief.

“Did you have nightmares when I was taken?” She asks abruptly.

“No,” he says, “I knew I would get you back,” she nods, hating that she had any doubt about the situation, “I knew how to fight what had you,” she nods again, “sleeping together also helped.”

“I knew we would get you back,” she says.

“Not in the way I did,” He replies. She looks at him, “I have more experience with the Paladins,” he scans her face, “it’s not a bad thing.”

“I know,” she says, “I did trust we’d get you back.”

“I didn’t trust anyone,” he says simply. She gives him a questioning look, “they tried to stop me to plan something out, I ignored them.”

She doesn’t know why the sound of that makes her feel like she’s swallowed those golden minnows. Someone single mind idly running off to rescue her is crazy, not something she would ever expect. From anyone. Even though she knew he was coming after her and she’d left him a trail, hearing that he ignored everyone else to run after her feels different.

“Why?” She asks.

“Getting to you was the only thing that mattered.”

She really wishes the feeling she gets when he says things like that would stop. It’s as though her body understands something her mind does not. If she can say one thing about him, it’s that he’s determined and focused. Almost to a fault. If he wanted to come for her, she doubts anything could have stopped him. She toys with a thread on her dress, thinking of the darker side of that determination. She’s grown up finding that there is a grey area in the world, things can be wonderful and terrible at the same time.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do that for you,” she admits.

“Why?”

“Why what?” She asks.

“Why are you sorry? You came for me,” he points out.

“But it took days,” she says, “and you got hurt.”

“You got hurt,” he reminds her, a shadow crossing his face, “Nimue healed you,” he touches the back of her hand, “I didn’t know how you would come for me but I knew you would.”

“Good,” she says, “sorry, I feel ridiculous about this. You’re the one who got kidnapped.”

He nods.

“I’ve been taken before,” he points out. She frowns in confusion, “you have no experience with kidnapping.”

His logic surprises a laugh out of her, though it is a terrible thing to laugh at. He is right though, up until she was being dragged away by the Paladins she had no experience with kidnapping. Not like him. It’s not something she ever planned on having experience with. She never thought her life would involve so much of this.

“You’re right,” she says, “that’s a horrible thing to have experience with but you’re right,” she fiddles with her fingers for a moment, “can I ask you something and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to?” He nods, “did you rescue Paladins? Back then?”

She doesn’t know what possesses her to ask it. It’s almost an unspoken rule that what he did back then is something they don’t deny but they don’t exactly go into particulars. She’s been sure up until this point that she doesn’t need to know and he hasn’t wanted to talk about it. She doesn’t know why she’s opening this door. She looks for any sign he doesn’t want to talk about it but he has his face looking away. Then he shifts his weight and looks at her.

“Yes,” he says, “and nobles,” he adds, “usually taken by the Fey,” he seems to gather his thoughts, “but while traveling, it used to be standard practice that they would take some Fey object or vial of Fey blood so I could track them.”

It’s a horrible and clever idea. Once again the amount of exploitation he’s gone though makes her feel ill, even if the knowledge that he would use the blood of the Fey he killed to track the people giving orders, makes her feel worse. It’s all just horrible. But even in that horror she realizes that her first thought is of what he went through, not of the Fey that were killed. The absence of the guilt that should bring is a sharp contrast to the last time she was on a boat with him, wondering if considering them friends was a betrayal of everyone she loved. She feels his gaze on her, judging her reaction to what he’s said.

“It’s a clever idea,” she says, “but it’s a horrible one too,” He nods, though his face is unchanged, “thank you for telling me,” she wraps her arms around her middle, “I should stop stalling.”

“You don’t have to sleep alone,” She looks at him in surprise. Color forms on his cheeks and he looks down resolutely before meeting her gaze again, “we could share—“

“Alright,” she cuts him off. She doesn’t really care what he’s thinking.

But she’s surprised what he’s thinking is sleeping just outside where they are keeping the horses.

Then again she shouldn’t be, Goliath is probably the greatest comfort to him for any part of him that’s upset. He has his hammock strung up by the door. She wonders if he’s afraid of conjuring his Fire, but they both seem to know that isn’t something to be afraid of. He has control of his Fire. What happened in the temple just seems to have cemented that. He stops to stroke Goliath’s muzzle. Now that he’s alright, Goliath is more like his old self and gives a pleased lipping to his hand before returning to his hay.

She lays next to him, though thanks to the hammock she winds up nearly half on top of him. They both look surprised as she eases herself back and he shifts over.

“Is this—“ she starts

“Here—“ he moves over

“Thank you.”

It takes a little wiggling to find a comfortable position until they wind up with her head against his chest and his arm over her shoulders. It shouldn’t feel strange, she’s fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder and they had been sleeping back to back. And it takes a moment to realize it should, but it doesn’t. It’s like she’s expecting it to feel odd but it doesn’t. It feels nice.

“You’re smiling,” he points out.

“I’m thinking about Guinevere,” she half lies. He looks at her curiously, “well Arthur flew off a ship for you, but you almost died and now we’re sharing a hammock. I think you may be in more danger.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering her words.

“I suppose we’ll just have to fight,” he says.

Pym doesn’t want to think about what a fight between him and Guinevere looks like. Somehow if there was one person she could see charging through the Fey Fire, it would be Guinevere. She knows he’s joking but the thought reminds her of him being chained up. The sleeve on his other wrist has ridden up and she can see the scars around his wrists. She’s just glad that those didn’t stay anywhere else. Not like that. A breeze blows through the open barn and she realizes that she should be cold but she’s not.

“You’re very warm,” she says. He angles his head towards her, “I didn’t really notice until we started doing this.”

“Sleeping together?” He deadpans.

“Yes,” she says, “do I make you cold?”

“No,” he says, “I usually get hot at night,” she looks at him curiously, “I never used a bedroll until I met you, I usually just slept on my cloak on the ground.”

“Has it gotten worse since the temple?”

He considers for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” he admits.

“It’s still new,” she points out, “I’m sure there’s more to figure out,” she hesitates “are you still planning on training Tristain?”

“Should I not?”

“No,” she says, “I think it would be good,” she adds, “as long as she doesn’t kill you or anything.”

“Not anymore,” he says. She looks at him curiously, she can’t remember if she explained about the hawks. She can’t even really remember what she’s worried about as she listens to his heart and the rise and fall of his chest. He holds his hand up, “we’re matriarchal but this changes things,” he says, “I think it makes me an adult.”

The words settle and she realizes what it means. Putting him on the path to being a Squire was one way of doing it, she wasn’t expecting for him to find another.

“So you’ve become an adult Fey,” she says.

Saying it aloud seems to catch him off guard and she feels his breath catch as the fingers in her shoulder tighten. But when she exhales it seems to remind him to do the same.

“For the Ash Folk,” he says.

“Oh I wasn’t suggesting you stop being a Squire,” she says, “I just hadn’t realized,” she looks at her own stained fingertips, “i guess we match, you’re becoming a member of the Sky Folk and I’ve got these.”

“You know more about being Sky Folk than I know about being Ash Folk,” he points out softly.

“Then I guess we’ll be something new,” she says, stifling a yawn, “besides I think we’ve supposed to be Guinevere’s subjects first.”

He’s quiet for a moment and she almost thinks he’s fallen asleep, but when she looks up she can see him mulling over her words. He realizes she’s looking at him and looks down at her. He’s thoughtful with his words, but he seems to almost struggle to find the right ones. Pym hopes he knows he doesn’t have to do that with her. He catches her gaze and she feels him tense slightly, if she hadn’t been laying on his chest she probably would have missed it.

“I think you, me and Squirrel are something else first,” he says, “then Guinevere’s subjects.”

She smiles at him, though she knows it’s probably dangerous to say such things with the Raiders around them. But she thinks they would understand. Guinevere too, even if she was annoyed at it.

“Alright, we’re something else first,” she says. He nods and she feels him relax, though she decides not to say anything about it, “Bors too,” she adds, “he’ll be heartbroken otherwise.”

He lets out a soft sound that’s something like a laugh.

“Bors too,” he agrees.


	39. Chapter 39

“How are we getting back to Guinevere?”

Kaze and Arthur look at each other. If they tell him not to worry about it, Lancelot is going to send someone else to ask them and report back. He’s willing to tolerate a certain amount of coddling but only a slight amount and only because he’s been asked to. He knows his body. Coddling is not what he needs. And something like “how are we returning to our friends on a stolen ship without getting killed” is something he needs to know. Most of the people here are distinctive looking, him, a Tristain and Kaze are the worst. But Pym’s hair, Bedivere’s missing hand—everything about Morgana. All of it doesn’t help.

“It’s two months early,” he continues when no-one answers, “Are they ready for us?” He looks between them, “do you have a plan?”

“Of course,” Arthur says as Kaze rolls her eyes. He focuses on her and she gives him a long, hard look, “Guinevere’s taking the port.”

“What?!”

He doesn’t expect the angry demand to escape his lips. Arthur cringes and Kaze frowns at both of them. But Lancelot is immediately concerned. Taking a port is different. Taking it means taking over the city, it’s a declaration. Not the subtle thing they have been doing. If they have planned two months to take the port, he has no idea what they’re coming back to. Arthur and the sword are here. Kaze is here. He is here. He knows that Guinevere is a good fighter, that she has her Raiders. But those Raiders agains the Church? His mind also goes to the little ones and the people who don’t want to fight, who joined them to build something. Who is watching them? Has she gone into this fight without Gawain?

“We have people on board—“ he starts

“We know,” Arthur says.

“And Tristain.”

“Tristain’s not going to be a problem,” Kaze cuts in. He looks at her and she meets his gaze easily, “I won her loyalty until we’re back on land.”

“You can’t think that counts,” he starts.

“So then you’ll kill her,” Kaze says, glancing towards his hands.

Kaze seems to know what they mean, or she guesses at it anyway. Normally Lancelot is appreciative if not a little wary of the similarities. It feels like he’s not alone. At the moment it’s another thing that makes him want to yell. Instead he forces himself to take a deep breath and speak. Though finding his voice when he’s lost in emotion is not something that comes easily.

  
“We cannot bring the little ones into a war zone,” he says, “they’re of no use.”

“We’re not bringing them into a war zone,” Arthur says, “we’re going to drop them off—“

“You know that isn’t going to work,” he cuts in. They look at him, “they aren’t ready.”

Arthur softens at that in a way Lancelot isn’t comfortable with. He knows they aren’t ready. That it isn’t fair to ask them to leave again so soon after they’ve all be re-united. Beyond that, leaving them alone seems like a foolish thing to do. The Paladins have enough sense to know that they are important to him, even if they don’t know the full extent. And it’s been enough time that whoever was waiting for Abbott Wicklow at the Via Francigena will have realized they are not coming. They will be looking for them. If they find Squirrel, Pym, Bors and whoever else, they will not be as foolish as they were with him.

“It’s the safest way,” Arthur says.

“No,” he replies. Arthur frowns, “they cannot go alone and you need me.”

They both look surprised at him and Lancelot doesn’t quite know what he’s thinking. They need him, he cannot be in two places at once. But they’ve managed fine without him. The swords on his hip feel unusually heavy, all of a sudden. A reminder of a time when the only thing that mattered were the orders that he was given. That’s not the case anymore. He can’t quite stop the guilt that wells up in him at the realization that he would defy orders now. Arthur rises up and Lancelot feels the tension in his muscles. He clenches and relaxes his jaw. There’s no anger on Arthur’s face but that’s no guarantee of anything.

“We need you,” Arthur agrees, “but if you want to go with them, we won’t stop you.”

“It’s too much of a risk,” he says.

Arthur moves his hand and Lancelot cannot quite hide the shift in his weight as he braces for the strike. But Arthur just clutches at his chest as though he’s the one whose wounded. Kaze gives a snort of a laugh. Lancelot looks between them even as Arthur seems to catch on that something is wrong. Kaze moves forward, either not seeing or not caring as she comes to stand near Arthur. Lancelot is grateful she’s not at his back, but it’s a near thing.

“He thinks so little of our abilities,” she scoffs. He presses his lips together, “we can take the port.”

He doesn’t know why he wants to argue the point. Why it feels like choosing between two betrayals. The choice is simple, or it should be. But it feels as though he must choose between what he wants to do and what he should do. How many lives can be saved—truly saved—by taking the port. More than the three he could save by going with them. Does he have any right to choose their lives over the ones he could save? After he’s taken so many? They could take the port without him but it will be far easier if he is there. He can save more lives if he is there. He still doesn’t know how many died when he was taken by the Paladins.

“We could also keep them here,” Arthur suggests, “or if you have another idea—“

“Yes,” Morgana cuts in, “i’ll go see how taking the port is going and report back.”

Lancelot jerks but contains the jump. If Morgana is sticking around, he is going to need to get used to it. She glances at him, letting him know he didn’t contain it as well as he thought. Though he’s among friends, Morgana is something else. Some undefined category. He cannot say if she is his friend or enemy, only that she would do anything for Arthur. Arthur and Nimue. She is like Merlin in that regard. He wonders suddenly if she knows about this city too. If she is back to help build it. Arthur’s face falls at the suggestion of Morgans going into battle, as though a few days ago she didn’t pitch both of them off a burning ship. Can she even die? Does it matter?

“Morgana—“ Arthur starts.

“Oh don’t ‘Morgana’ me, I’ll be fine,” the two of them look at each other and something in Morgana takes on the appearance of a much more alive woman, “I was saving Fey long before I had these powers.”

“I know,” Arthur says.

“Good,” she pauses a moment and rolls her eyes, “what?”

“I just don’t like the idea of you flinging yourself into a battle,” he says, almost sheepishly.

“I’ll be fine! It’s not like they can hurt me,” she retorts, “I know it’s not my time to die.”

“Is it anyones?” Lancelot asks.

She swings to look at him and he meets her gaze. They all look at him but he only looks at her. Does she know about the city? Does she know that Pym is not there? Lancelot refuses to entertain the idea that this is how things end. He would not want to bring them into a battle regardless, but the threat of this city looms largely over him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a mix of emotions fly over Arthur’s face. He’s worried and he’s anxious, not about the battle but about Morgana going there. Lancelot cannot help but be intrigued by it.

“Maybe,” Morgana says, “but I’m not here to prevent anyone’s deaths.”

His hand drops to his sword.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur is between them suddenly, “Morgana.”

“Don’t ‘Morgana’ me,” she snaps back, “I’ll look and I’ll come back,” she says.

It’s still hard for Lancelot to reconcile her with the nun he knew in passing. The defiance he mistook for just the will of someone who had been raised wrong and found salvation late. Not hopeless, not demon born, but certainly in trouble. He can see that defiance for what it is. He respects and, he realizes suddenly, envies it. He doesn’t think Morgana has ever had a moment of confusion for where her loyalties lay.

“It’s the best plan,” Kaze says.

Lancelot looks over at Arthur who looks as though he’s been struck. His features harden and Lancelot realizes he’s not the only one struggling with a betrayal of some kind. Arthur is protective over Morgana, that much is clear. How could he not be? Lancelot remembers the sound of his mother’s voice, telling him to take Hector with him. Was he a brother? Could he have been one? Would he have looked at him the same way Arthur looks at Morgana, no matter how powerful he may have been? He knows he thinks that way about Squirrel. Though the boy gets better at fighting and taking care of himself with each passing day, Lancelot dreads the one when he runs off on adventures with nothing to stop him. When his age is neither reason nor excuse.

“If we can’t think of a better one,” Arthur says.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Morgana says, something between outrage and exasperation in her voice, “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Arthur says quietly.

“We can think of something better,” Lancelot blurts out, even though his voice comes out steady. They all look at him. He has no ideas, no great revelations, but Arthur looks so melancholy and worried he cannot help but want to do something, “Guinevere has Gawain with her. I should be able to smell—“

“Does your nose have eyes?” Morgana jabs

“I know when Gawain is injured,” he shoots back.

“And whose fault was that?” She questions, somehow digging into the guilt with accuracy that almost takes his breath away.

“Morgana!” Arthur cuts in.

Lancelot knows that she’s right. Gawain’s death is one of so many. He’s so humbled by them coming to get him, his mind drags back to how many came after the Fey he let survive, how many traps he baited like he did with Squirrel. The fact that he knows any of their names, no matter how few, is a miracle in and of itself. The guilt has never really gone, but it seems to grow with Morgana’s presence. Almost to overwhelming heights. He knows his lungs are working, but it feels as though his mind is drowning in guilt. His fingers tighten on the hilt of his blades. He’s been overwhelmed by the feeling before, this is nothing new. His swords have been blessed. He may not believe in the Church anymore, but he believes in that.

“It was my fault,” he says. One of her eyebrows quirks up, “I ran him through and brought him to the camp,” he continues, “I did it,” he looks at the rest of them, “if he’s injured I’ll be able to smell it, even with what he’s become.”

“How far away?” Arthur asks.

“Depends on the wind,” he says, “I smelled all of you nearly a day away,” he adds, “but the wind was on our side.”

“No, I did that,” Morgana says, “was that not obvious?”

They shake their heads. Lancelot isn’t sure how it’s supposed to be. Even he isn’t fully clear on what Morgana can or cannot do. Nor is anyone, he thinks. Maybe not even her. Morgana seems to know that she can do this though.

“Bring the boat around,” she says, “I’ll take care of the winds. Maybe get the other one up here.”

He nods and goes down to find Tristain. She’s cross legged in front of her precious hawks, feeding them through the bars of their cage. Next to her Pym is reading through her book. He slows his step as he realizes the drowning guilt has lessened significantly. Pym looks at him and he’s aware that Tristain knows his presence. But the sharp lessening of the guilt makes him take a step backwards. At five steps back, he finds it beginning again. Gentler, but there is a focus to it. Instead of bringing Tristain up, he looks at them both.

“Go to the far wall,” he says.

“Why?” Tristain asks.

“Come on,” Pym says. She rolls her eyes but listens as they move farther away. Lancelot returns to the deck and ignores everyone, walking up to Morgana.

“Can you control it?” He asks. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, “is it focused on me?”

She’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the sea and then turns to face him.

“It’s anyone who comes in a certain range,” she says, “what does it make you feel?”

“Guilt,” he says. She nods.

“It preys on what you feel most strongly,” she says, “not that you don’t deserve it.”

He inclines his head, swallowing back the question of what it is or what it makes anyone feel. He’s always felt guilt. Guilt for being a coward, for being weak, for running, for staying, for killing his own kind, for being one of them at all—guilt is the emotion he’s most familiar with. Feeling like someone who is worth something for more than just raw skill is a new, strange feeling. One he imagines he’s too old to ever become fully used to.

“Do you know the range?”

“It’s not the same for everyone,” she says, “only those it has an interest in,” he frowns, not fully understanding what she means. Morgana doesn’t seem to care to elaborate and shrugs instead, “it should be fine if you and Tristain stand there and I go here.”

It’s not the priority right now, keeping them all on the ship is. Especially Morgana. If not for her than for Arthur’s sake.


	40. Chapter 40

“You need to try and connect with the Hidden.”

Pym jumps at the way Kaze says it and the beads on her wrist suddenly feel tight. Which is all in her head. She looks at Kaze who meets her gaze steadily. She’s silent but she doesn’t look patient and Pym feels something in her recoil. She thought she was clear that wasn’t something she could do. Even if she glossed over the details about why the Hidden didn’t like her. But there’s a sharp seriousness in Kaze’s tone, the kind that comes out most frequently when she’s talking about the most important things. 

“I can’t,” Pym starts.

“You’re High Summoner, aren’t you?”  
  
“Only because there’s no-one else,” she says.

“Other Sky Folk women survived, there have been male High Summoners before.”

“I was just standing closest,” she dismisses, “and there haven’t been male summoners in centuries but if the Hidden want to pick one then they’re more than welcome to.”

Kaze just looks at her and Pym finds herself desperately trying to shore up her defenses to the look. She can understand why the Queens of her Folk would seek her out for counsel, it’s not just that Kaze gives good advice. She’s also very good at making sure that advice is followed. But Pym isn’t a Queen, she’s not even really High Summoner. She’s a village girl from a disgraced family. Lancelot or Squirrel or even Arthur would have a better chance of talking to the Hidden than she would.

“You need to try and connect with them,” Kaze repeats.

“I heard you and I’m telling you I cannot,’ Pym says, “they haven’t spoken to me. Ever,” Kaze raises an eyebrow, “I’ve caught glimpses of them but they don’t stay. I don’t connect with them like you’re saying.”

“You need to try.”

“Why?” Pym demands and Kaze almost smiles, like that’s what she’s been waiting for her to say. 

“Lancelot can smell that they are trying to signal us. We’re heading for that place. The Hidden may be able to tell us more.” 

Hearing that Lancelot is off smelling things and directing the ship makes Pym shove her book away and take off for the stairs. It’s not that she doesn’t trust what’s going on, but if Guinevere knows how to signal them don’t the Paladins? Lancelot would surely know the difference. But the wound of him sacrificing himself is too fresh for her to say confidently that she’s alright with blindly heading into this. He’s standing on the deck with his head bowed and his hood up. She can see how similar he looks to the man he used to be. But that’s the same man who was dragged half dead onto her table months ago. 

“What did you smell?” She questions.

  
He turns towards her quickly. Pym ignores the jump her stomach seems to give when his eyes blankly lock onto her before recognition comes into them. He shifts his body slightly and behind him she can see Morgana and Arthur are talking. Or arguing rather. She doesn’t know why Lancelot looks dazed or his hand is dropped to his swords, but she likes neither of those things. He’s healed, she has to remind herself. Iron stops his ability and the only iron that was in him was the stuff in his gut. His head was not impaled like that. His brain is fine. 

“It’s some kind of Fey flower,” he says, “or plant.”

“What does it smell like?” She asks.

He looks at her blankly and she feels the worry sharpen. Though she reminds herself that it could be because he’s not used to having to explain what he smells. He’s usually just able to smell things, give directions and they listen. But if he can phrase it in a way that she can understand, maybe she can know and make an educated guess. Because otherwise she’s going to have to try and connect to the Hidden and that isn’t going to go well, if anything happens at all. If they can figure this out without her having to do that, they will be better off. 

“It smells like just before something is rotten,” he says, “and it’s Fey.”

  
“Is it Gawain?”

  
He turns his head back towards it and she watches him take a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. His eyes remain closed before he shakes his head. 

  
“No. He’s there. He helps,” he says, “but it’s not that entirely.” 

“Have you smelled it before?”

“Yes,” he says after a moment of consideration. His eyes open, “when I was hunting Nimue. It wasn’t as strong then.”

What he has done, who he has hunted, it’s come up more in the past days than it has before. As if the past refuses to be pushed aside like she knows she has been doing. It’s not that she’s in denial about it, but the details of it, those haven’t been things she’s pressed for before. Now is not the time to get lost in that though. It’s something she knows will need to be dealt with sooner rather than later. But right now they need to stay alive.

  
“It was probably the Hidden,” she realizes and fights the urge to swear. Lancelot looks at her curiously, “Kaze said I should try to connect to them to see if they had any insight,” he looks at her blankly, “I’ve never connected to them.”

“Do you not want to try?”

“No!” She objects and it comes out louder than she means for it to. Lancelot nods and looks back over in the direction he was smelling.

“You should go back down then,” he says. 

“Why?” She says, more suspicious suddenly of his urgency to get her off the deck, “come with me.”

“No, I need to be here to direct the ship.”

“Even though we could be going into a trap?” 

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong with you?” She asks, touching his hand. He glances at her at the direct question and the physical touch, “Lancelot?”

He looks over his shoulder and then takes her hand, leading her away. She isn’t sure how far they’ve gone before he stops and seems to come back to himself, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it and taking a deep breath. He looks at her and drops both her hand and the hand from his swords. 

“What is it?” She repeats. 

“Morgana’s powers,” he says. He looks at her, “do you feel something—more than you did?” 

She thinks about it but it doesn’t jump out at her. She feels the same kind of fear she always has when she thinks about the Hidden. The same certainty that everything she heard was right and they are going to punish her like the High Summoner did. She also feels the same kind of guilt she does occasionally when she remembers how complicated the situation with Lancelot is. How it will always be complicated. 

“No,” she says, “I always feel things strongly around you.”

That at least makes him smile slightly. 

“What does it make you feel?”

“Guilt,” he says, “it’s nothing, I’m accustom to it.”

She can’t lie and say he doesn’t deserve it. He’s done things that he should feel guilty for. But at the same time the thought of him suffering more feels—wrong. She looks over to see Arthur still talking to Morgana, neither of them seemingly affected by whatever has affected Lancelot. Perhaps it’s another thing that focuses more on the Fey than humans. Or maybe there are things like the love between siblings that cannot be broken by whatever Morgana now is. 

“It’s not nothing,” she says quietly. He nods at her words.

“The Hidden haven’t objected to you being chosen,” he points out.

  
“They don’t have much choice,” Pym reminds him.

“They do. Bors and Squirrel are both candidates. Merlin as well. Arthur has the sword. I’ve seen them,” he rattles it off, “none of us have seen anything that would say they object to you.”

She snorts softly. 

“What about me not being in the vision?” She points out. He doesn’t have a response for that, “who knows, perhaps they’re just waiting to strike me down.” 

It’s a horrible thing to say but it’s one she’s heard every time she disobeyed. The Hidden favored Nimue and Nimue swore they weren’t going to do such things, but the voice of a playmate stood no chance over the voice of a parent, especially when her family had been put out after her uncle’s behavior. If the Hidden were so kind, surely they would have done something to show Lenore that it wasn’t what they wished. But they hadn’t. Connecting to them now just seems like something far too late. She glances at Lancelot but he’s closed off his emotions, as he seems to do when she brings up Merlin’s vision. Which is one of the reasons she never brought it up. But like the guilt about the details concerning Lancelot’s past deeds, now it doesn’t seem to leave her lips or her mind. 

“If I illuminate the water, will you look?”

“Huh?” She’s surprised by his quiet question but realizes that he’s right, the last time she saw anything even resembling them, it was in the reflection of his fire, “I suppose—“

“You don’t have to,” he cuts in, “I’ve tracked into things before. We can turn if it seems like a place we shouldn’t go.”

“No,” she says, “we should at least try. There’s no sense in anyone getting injured. I just, I’m not sure if it will work—“ she trails off.

“Just try,” he says. 

Pym nods. She can at least try. He leads her over to the side of the ship. She smiles weakly. 

“Just don’t burn it down.”

He almost rolls his eyes at that but nods and raises his hand. It’s truly incredible how she’s gone from hearing stories about Fey Fire to being nearly blinded by it to now almost being used to it. The Fire he now makes is darker somehow than the kind he used to produce. She can look at it without her eyes hurting, at least for a while. But she focuses instead on the water below as he holds the fire aloft. 

There’s nothing there. 

She didn’t expect there to be, but the switch from hopeful to disappointed is still bitter. It still tastes like failure. She shakes her head to let him know that nothing is there. She doesn’t know why she thought it would be. But then she thinks back to the ship burning and she remembers that it wasn’t just the Fire’s reflection. 

  
“Can you put it in the water?” She asks.

“The ship bows out too much here,” he says, closing his hand around the Fire, “we need to go to the bow.” 

“Stay there,” she says and hurries to the front, looking between the siblings, “you need to go to the back of the boat,” she says.

“Come on,” Morgana tells her brother, leading him there. 

Pym turns to see Lancelot walking towards the front of it where she is. It’s the narrowest part and it slopes away from them. Still he steps up and walks onto the forepeak. He crouches down, balancing easily. As though that’s a normal thing to do on a ship and looks at her. 

“Be careful,” she says.

He nods and extends his hand. It takes a moment of concentration before the fire drops in a long coil and just lightly touches the water. Pym hopes it’s enough. She grips the edge and leans over as much as she can, peering through. It’s not still, certainly it’s not as easy to see, but in the green she can see a flash of gold. Then another, further up. And another. They appear slowly again, but soon it seems as though they’ve surrounded the ship and are guiding them to where Lancelot’s told them to go. 

“I can see them!” She calls to him, “they’re pointing us the way you said.” 

He nods and closes his fist. The Fire wavers for a moment before shimmering out. She looks down at the water and thinks she may catch sight of the gold but she can’t be sure. Lancelot stands up and Pym drags her eyes back to him. It’s only a few steps but she moves closer anyway. She hasn’t seen him extend the Fire like he just did and fully healed or not, she knows that what he’s been through has to have some effect. 

It’s almost a miracle that he’s fine until the last step. 

He’s close enough for her to lunge forward when he slips. He immediately shifts his weight and crouches down, using his hand to steady himself but she’s already grabbed the back of his cloak. He looks up at her in surprise and she meets his gaze. Her adrenaline pounding through her. He reaches up and takes her hand, guiding it off his shoulder and gripping her forearm. She copies it and grips his in return, lowering her other hand. It makes it easier for him to come back onto the deck fully. 

“Are you alright,” she asks belatedly. 

“I’m fine,” he says, “not used to boats.”

“Of course not,” she remembers, feeling foolish suddenly, “are you sure?”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he points out.

“I think you’re just going to have to get used to people worrying about you,” she says. He frowns, “that’s what happens when you care about people.”

“I know,” he says, “but I can heal.”

“We can worry about the rest of you as well. Like you worry about us.” 

She knows this wars with his practicality, but she also knows he understands. Probably more than he ever expected to. Pym can somewhat understand. She never expected to face life like she is, even the glimpse of the Hidden that makes her think of Nimue makes her heart ache viciously. It would be better to not care for anyone. But the idea of Lancelot slipping—no matter how slim of a chance it is—also made her feel the same kind of vicious dread. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats. 

“Did you see them?” Arthur asks and Pym is grateful that Morgana doesn’t seem to be with him.

“Yes,” she says, “they’re pointing us in the direction we’re going.”

“That’s good,” he says. 

“No,” Kaze cuts in, also appearing. She looks at Arthur, “we should stop the ship. It’s not enough to just see them. That doesn’t tell us anything.”

She feels Lancelot’s fingers tighten on her forearm. Not painfully, but when she looks up at his face the plan doesn’t seem to be one he’s interested in hearing more about.

“It’s enough for now,” he says, “we’ve both told you it’s alright.” 

“I understand what you’re saying,” Arthur adds, “but stopping the ship would be foolish.”

  
“And I’ve never connected with them,” Pym points out. She gives a weak smile, “I know how to swim but—“

The idea of going into the water like this a hard one, though she imagines if anything could get her to do it it would be something Kaze says. But doing it so that the Hidden can just not help isn’t something she’s anxious to do. Kaze looks between the three of them and shakes her head. 

  
“We could be going into a trap,” she points out. She looks at Pym, “your fear is going to get us killed.” 

The rebuke is sharp and Pym knows it’s deserved. How Kaze can see her fear, she doesn’t know. Maybe it’s just obvious, even if she doesn’t say anything. Lancelot’s hand slips from her forearm to thread their fingers together, gripping her hand. She’s grateful for the support, even though she knows that it’s not deserved. 

“Why don’t you just use a bucket?” Morgana calls over to them, “only one of them deserves to drown.” 

Lancelot glares at the wood. Pym thinks of him almost slipping and then how he, Arthur and Kaze will be the first off. The most likely to die. She nods. 

“Let’s try it.” 

One of the Raiders gets a bucket and fills it with sea water. Pym doesn’t know how this is supposed to work but she crouches in front of it. Lancelot kneels down next to her and looks for her to nod. She does and he dips his fingers into the water, letting the Fire go. Pym sees the others wince and look away but focuses instead on the bucket. The golden shimmer appears after a moment, like her eyes need to adjust to see it. Not knowing what else to do, she takes the hand that has her beads wrapped around it and sticks it in the water. Nothing happens at first. She tries closing her eyes but doesn’t feel much different. She still feels the fear that Kaze is talking about. She tries to think of how she lets it go. 

“Can you move your Fire so I can touch your hand?” She asks him. 

“Hold on,” he says.

The Fire becomes a marble sized ball that floats in the water column. Then he takes her hand. That makes her feel better instantly. She looks at the golden light that flickers in the water and feels her eyes start to go soft. Like they’re looking at something far away. No voices come to her but she feels a wave of calm settle over her. She knows that it’s them and focuses on the warmth of Lancelot’s hand. If he’s here then she’s safe and there is nothing to be afraid of. When she thinks the thought harder, there’s a humming in the back of her head that seems to agree. 

“It’s alright,” she says, “we’re going the right way. We shouldn’t be afraid.” 

Lancelot squeezes her hand and she forces herself back into the present. The humming and the gold light stops, but she feels alright. Lancelot lets go of her hand and takes back the Fire. They straighten up and Pym feels better. It’s not the whispers that everyone else has said they’ve heard, but it sounds like the humming Nimue used to do on wash day. It’s something comforting. Not anything she expected from the Hidden. She rubs the beads on her wrist. Even without Lancelot’s hand in hers, they don’t feel nearly as frightening. She takes the bucket herself and tips it over the edge. 

“It shouldn’t be long,” Lancelot says. 

It isn’t before land becomes visible. The Raiders are good and Morgana’s control of the wind lends them speed. And soon the visible land becomes more defined. She can see the port they left out of. It looks far more green than she was expecting. What Lancelot smelled is a bright blue flower she doesn’t recognize but that is suddenly growing everywhere. It has to be Gawain’s doing. They’ve taken the port, there’s no doubt in her mind. Not because of the flowers.

Guinevere’s dragon banner is flying proudly in the wind that carries them home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one shot that bridges book 3 and then book 3 will be up shortly if you are reading the fic this way. Thank you!


End file.
